


The Blind Leading

by sabershadowkat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 10:56:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4432868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabershadowkat/pseuds/sabershadowkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike's chip is damaged and he becomes blind. How does he cope?<br/>Post Into The Woods</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blind Leading

**Part One**   
  


"Oh, come on, you dumb twat!" Spike leaned forward on his chair, glaring angrily at the blond-haired woman. "It's not that bloody difficult! _As You Like It_. Say 'What is, _As You Like It_?'"   
  


"What is _The Twelfth Night_?"   
  


"I'm sorry, that is incorrect."   
  


Spike slumped back in his chair in disgust, Alex Trebek moving on to the next _Jeopardy_ answer on his television screen. Why did he watch this show?, the vampire wondered as another wrong question was given. "Because you're a chipped nonce with no unlife," he muttered to himself in response.   
  


After a week of laying low, avoiding Buffy and her post-breakup temper, Spike was itching to get out and create some old fashion chaos and mayhem. Of course, his destructive tendencies were now focused on his fellow non-humans due to the thrice-damned chip in his skull, but at least he could still cause trouble and get into beautiful fights. He didn't know what he'd do if those things were taken away from him, too.   
  


Behind him, the crypt door creaked, and he sniffed the air. Perking up before reminding himself that she was most likely still in a snit, he stood to greet the blond Slayer that stomped into his crypt. "Slayer, how nice of you to drop baa--"   
  


Buffy cut Spike off in her usual cliched manner -- by bodily ramming him against the support column in the center of the crypt. She slammed him against the sharp corner of the column, rather than the flat side, and his head snapped back under the stronger-than-normal shove. He felt his skull crack on the stone corner, like an egg on the side of a frying pan.   
  


"What do you know about the Rite of Galabaresh?" Buffy growled.   
  


Spike looked at her for a half-second, thinking about how sexy she was when she was pissed. Then his eyes rolled back, the whites completely exposed, and his body began to jerk in the Slayer's grasp: hard, uncontrolled spasms, as if he'd grabbed a live wire. Blood started to run from his nose, and he collapsed to the ground, twitching wildly, when Buffy quickly backed away.   
  


"Oh no, I broke him," Buffy gasped. "Giles is going to kill me."   
  


The blond Slayer turned and ran from the crypt, leaving Spike bleeding from his ear onto the dirty floor.   
  


*****   
  


Spike raised his head at the sound of voices and people entering the crypt. He was sitting on the floor, with his back against the stone support column, facing the crypt door. His head ached in a way that made Riley's staking him with a hunk of plastic feel like a tickle. But that wasn't the worst part...   
  


"Spike, are you all right?"   
  


Giles's voice, mostly annoyed with a hint of concern, came from in front of him, close by.   
  


"That better not have been a trick, Spike."   
  


Buffy, anger in her voice at the possibility of having been duped, coming from somewhere to his left.   
  


"He's bleeding." Willow. Quick footsteps, and then her voice directly in front of him, her breath warm on his face. "Here, Spike. Use this."   
  


Spike sat there, blinking rapidly, looking right where Willow should be.   
  


He saw nothing.   
  


When he'd first returned to consciousness, complete with the swimming feeling that always made him nauseous, he'd thought that he'd been taken prisoner by someone or something. The amount of pain he was in had told him that he wasn't dead, only that he wished he was. He'd immediately gone to remove the blindfold covering his eyes... to find that he hadn't been wearing one.   
  


He'd been confused for a moment, but then had decided that he'd been locked in a windowless room, which was why everything was pitch black. He'd forced himself to sit up, despite the pain, and had moved around until he'd found something solid to lean against. Forcibly ignoring his aching head, he'd concentrated on the sounds and smells of his prison, trying to determine where he was or perhaps who or what had captured him.   
  


It had taken him less than ten seconds to realize he was still in the crypt.   
  


Ten minutes later, he was trying to stave off his panic when he came to the realization that he was blind.   
  


Spike's hands shot out with the intent to violently shove Willow away. A familiar but no less excruciating pain lanced through his head, and he barely heard the redhead's squeak of distress and her bottom hitting the crypt floor as he cried out in agony. He grabbed his skull and pressed his forehead against his upraised knees, curling in on himself. His brain felt like it was going to explode.   
  


"...Wounded animal," filtered through the rushing in Spike's ears. "...Should leave..."   
  


"No!" Spike shouted with a sob. Tears streaming down his face, he raised his head and looked in what he hoped was Giles's direction. "Don't go. I need help, damn it!"   
  


Buffy snorted. "Since you asked so very nicely..."   
  


"Buffy," Giles chided. Footsteps, heavier tread, coming closer to Spike. "Spike, what seems to be the problem?"   
  


"That bitch of yours slammed me against the bloody post, cracked my skull, and now I can't see!" the vampire exclaimed, pain and fear causing a slightly hysterical edge to his voice.   
  


"Your attitude precludes anyone from offering you assistance," Giles snapped. "If you wish my help, do not refer to Buffy, or any of my charges, in that manner again."   
  


Spike was silent for a moment, before he mumbled, "Sorry."   
  


"Wow, Spike must really need help," Willow said quietly to Buffy, although Spike, with his preternatural hearing, could hear her clearly in his right ear. "He actually apologized. And- and look, he's crying, although I've seen him do that before. You know, when he came back all drunk and heartbroken and kidnapped me and Xander. But he's still bleeding from his nose--"   
  


"And his ear," Buffy added, her voice at normal level. "Giles, I didn't hit his nose or his ear."   
  


"Yes, Buffy, you told me what happened," Giles said. Spike could feel the Watcher crouch in front of him, could smell the biscuits on his breath. Something soft was pressed into the vampire's hand. "For your nose," he was told.   
  


Spike wiped under his nose with what he assumed was a handkerchief, then roughly brushed the wetness from his cheeks. Hell, he was crying in front of Buffy. How manly. So what if he was literally feeling the definition of the word agony? His Slayer didn't tolerate wimps.   
  


"You said something about not being able to see?" Giles questioned him.   
  


"Yeah," Spike replied, wadding the handkerchief in his hand. "I can't see a soddin' thing."   
  


"Can you see me?"   
  


Spike scowled in the direction where he assumed Giles was. "Which part of 'I can't see a soddin' thing' didn't you get, mate?"   
  


"True, my apologies," Giles said. "What I should have asked is: what can you see?"   
  


Spike growled in frustration, but before he could snap at the Watcher, Giles clarified, "Is everything blurry? White? Grey? Black?"   
  


"Black," Spike answered. He felt the air move in front of his face and caught Giles's hand on a downswing. "Unless you're doing some hocus-pocus, waving your digits in my face isn't going to fix me."   
  


"And how did you know he was doing that?" Buffy said. "See, Giles, I was right. Spike just wants to get out of telling us what he knows about the Rite of Galabaresh."   
  


Why do I have the hots for her again?, Spike wondered. She was such a whiny little bint at times, uncaring of anyone but herself. Okay, yes, she was damn sexy, all that power squashed into the tiniest body. And her eyes, big expressive pools of warmth that he could drown in. And she always smelled good, even when she'd been fighting and worked up a sweat. In fact, she smelled even better then.   
  


Swell, now both of his heads hurt.   
  


"I knew, _Slayer_ ," Spike emphasized her title, "just like you know someone's about to take that airhead of yours off your shoulders." She hmphed, but did not comment further.   
  


"Turn your head to the right," Giles instructed the vampire. "I'm going to touch you."   
  


"Oh, baby, baby," Spike said tonelessly as he did as told. Giles's fingers were warm on his cool skin as the Watcher poked around his ear. He assumed the ear being scrutinized was the one that was bleeding, which would explain why he couldn't hear very well with that one.   
  


"By the way," Giles said, prodding away with his fingers. " _Do_ you know anything about the Rite of Galabaresh?"   
  


"Are you going to stop helping me if I say I don't?"   
  


"The thought had crossed my mind," Giles replied.   
  


"You are a right bastard, Rupert," Spike stated. The fingers stopped and all was silent until he huffed, "You win. The Rite of Galabaresh can be stopped by nicking anything off the altar and holding onto it until after midnight the night of the ritual. S'all I know."   
  


"When does the ritual take place?" Buffy asked. "And where?"   
  


Spike shrugged. "Don't know, don't care. Haven't been out much since your ex decided to poke a hole in my heart before leaving you," he leered in what he thought was her direction, the double-meaning obvious, "high and dry."   
  


"Giles, isn't it more humane to put down a wounded animal?" Buffy asked innocently.   
  


"Normally, yes--"   
  


"Hey!" Spike exclaimed.   
  


"--but since Spike did provide us with information, I think assisting him would be a- a fair trade," Giles finished. Spike felt the Watcher take him under the arm. "Come along, Spike. We need to clean the blood from your ear before I can ascertain what is wrong."   
  


Spike rose to his feet and would have fallen again if Giles hadn't have had a good grip on him, his balance off. His head throbbed mercilessly, and not being able to see had him wound up tighter than a string, which didn't help his headache any. He took a single step forward, with Giles guiding him, then froze as reality once again smacked him in the face.   
  


He was blind.   
  


 

 **Part Two**   
  


It hadn't gone away.   
  


Spike had hoped that the old adage of 'walking it off' would hold true. Wrong. All walking had done was cause him to pass out again, shortly after he'd heard the Watcher say something about blood gushing from the back of his skull. He had reawakened in Giles's Mid-Life Crisis Mobile, with his face in Willow's lap and her pressing something against the back of his head. She'd smelled like the other Witch, and the images that had popped into his mind had aroused him enough that he'd made a mental note to spy on them some time.   
  


When he could see again, that was.   
  


Spike was currently sprawled face down on Giles's dining table, with his head hanging off the end. A towel had been rolled and placed under his chin to prop his head slightly and prevent him from cutting his Adam's apple on the edge of the table. There was probably a sheet on the floor to prevent his blood from staining the carpeting.   
  


Giles was seated in front of him -- he could tell by how loud the man's heartbeat was -- and, Satan help him, Buffy was straddling his back, holding his head still as the Watcher poked around. Spike could feel her heat, through her pants and his tee-shirt, burning a hole in his skin. If it wasn't for the fact that his brains felt as though they were leaking out his ear, he'd be on the fifth stair to heaven and working his way up.   
  


It turned out the reason his head felt like it was split open was because it _was_ split open. The Slayer had done a right good number on him, if the chastising she'd gotten from Giles was any indication. Spike knew she'd hit him harder than usual -- he'd felt it first hand -- but he hadn't thought it she'd shoved him _that_ hard.   
  


"Is that the chip?" Buffy asked.   
  


"You can see the chip?" Spike said quickly.   
  


"It appears to be the chip, yes," Giles replied. "It also appears to be damaged. The outer casing has broken." He lightly touched the exposed wires with the tweezers in his hand.   
  


White sparks shot from the chip, and Spike began jerking wildly beneath Buffy. Buffy clamped down with her thighs and gave Giles a panicked look. The acrid scent of smoke and burnt flesh rose from the vampire's split skull. Blood began to leak from Spike's nose and ear again, running down his face and dripping onto Giles's trousers and chair.   
  


Giles cleared his throat when Spike's body when still. "Oops."   
  


"Oops?" Willow called worriedly from over by the bookshelf.   
  


"Big oops," Buffy said. She adjusted her position on Spike's back and leaned forward. "Spike, are you ali- er, undead?"   
  


"No," Spike whispered roughly. It hurt. Bloody hell, did it hurt. He hadn't passed out this time, but he wished he had. Not even Buffy's squirming could distract him from the agonizing pain.   
  


"Oh, hey, Giles," Buffy said. "See that glowing green thing in Spike's chip? It looks like the same stuff that had kept Adam running."   
  


Which meant the batteries would never run out on the soddin' thing, Spike thought unhappily. Unless he managed to get the chip removed, he would never hunt humans again. "Take it out," he rasped.   
  


"If he does, I'll stake you before you get off this table," Buffy warned, her fingers tightening on the sides of his head. Ow.   
  


"I- I don't think that I could, anyway, in its damaged state," Giles said. He adjusted the light and the strong magnifying glass that was attached by a flexi-arm to it. "Not without destroying a good portion of Spike's brain."   
  


"Wouldn't it just grow back?" Willow asked, joining them with an open Gray's Anatomy text in her hands. "You know, because vampires have super-amazing recuperative abilities."   
  


"No," Giles replied, taking the text from her. He compared the illustration from the open book to Spike's open head. "The brain does not regenerate in any species. Once it is damaged, it stays that way."   
  


Spike felt the sharp sting of tears behind his closed eyelids as the last thread of hope was sheared by reality. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell the Watcher to tear the thing out anyway, but did he want to chance losing an important brain function, like walking or talking, or even logical thinking? He was already blind -- an affliction that he was beginning to suspect was permanent. Did he want to chance becoming a vampire vegetable?   
  


"Please," Spike said in a raw voice. "Just rip the bloody thing out."   
  


A tense silence filled Giles's home. The blood stopped running from Spike's nose and began to dry on his face, making him itch. His one ear was clogged again and he briefly wondered if his brain really had leaked out of it.   
  


"I'll...," Giles began, then paused for a long moment before continuing. "I'll try."   
  


A tear escaped from behind Spike's tightly closed eyelids and ran down the side of his nose. "Thank you," he whispered, and meant it.   
  


"I'll offer no guarantees, however," Giles said. "It looks as though the broken chip has already damaged a portion of your occipital lobe, which would explain why you are unable to see. There are shards from the broken casing imbedded in that area of your brain. I suspect that they acted as a conductor--"   
  


"Giles," Willow interrupted softly. "I don't think he can hear you."   
  


Giles blinked several times, then looked down at the completely lax vampire. "Hmm, you're right." He handed her the book. "I'd best get started, then."   
  
  
  


*****   
  
  
  


A bolt of panic hit Spike after he'd opened his eyes to find everything dark, before he remembered what had happened. Broken skull. Damaged ox-lobe. Blind as a bleedin' bat. Giles agreeing to take the chip out.   
  


Spike raised his hands and tentatively touched his head. A thick, somewhat coarse bandage was wrapped around it, and the back of his head was extremely tender to the touch. He still had the headache to end all headaches. In fact, it seemed to hurt even more than earlier, which could mean...   
  


"We couldn't get it out."   
  


The blond vampire jumped, startled by Buffy's voice. He turned towards it, swinging his legs off what he presumed was Giles's bed. "What do you mean you couldn't get it out?" he asked, anger raising in his tone. He'd told them to rip the effin' thing out of his head. How could they botch that?   
  


"It's really anchored in your brain, Spike," Buffy said. "Giles would've had to cut out most of your parietal lobe to remove it."   
  


"Well, why the bloody hell didn't he?" Spike snapped.   
  


"Because then you would've become a vegetable," she told him. "You'd be more useless than you are now."   
  


Spike flinched. The girl never pulled any of her punches. "I bet you didn't even try taking it out," he muttered, dropping his chin.   
  


"Giles tried, all right. He has numb fingers from being continuously shocked," Buffy said. "Willow finally made us stop, because all we were doing was frying your brain, rather than helping you."   
  


Bitterness welled up inside Spike, and he felt a stabbing pain in his chest. "What about my being blind?" he asked.   
  


The silence was telling. The pain in his chest became all encompassing, overwhelming the pain in his head. He clasped his thighs tightly, his fingers biting through his jeans and bruising his skin.   
  


"Giles isn't positive that you won't simply heal," Buffy said quietly. "We removed the fragments of the casing. The area looked like it had electrical burns, but--"   
  


"What time is it?" Spike interrupted, his voice hoarse.   
  


"Around one in the morning," she replied.   
  


He stood, keeping his head bowed. "Take me back to the crypt, will you?"   
  


Buffy was quiet for a moment before she gently agreed. "Sure."   
  


Spike heard her footsteps across the floor, then felt her take his arm. Trusting her not to steer him into anything, he let her guide him one cautious step at a time.   
  


The darkness that surrounded him let out a whoop of mocking laughter.   
  


**Part Three**   
  


"We're here," Buffy said, the first words she'd spoken since they'd left the Watcher's. Spike felt the door brush against his arm as the Slayer led him through it. Home never looked better, he thought mordantly.   
  


"Do you want to sit down?" Buffy asked him, guiding him further into the crypt.   
  


"No," he told her, coming to a halt. "This is fine. Thanks." He could be polite, when he wanted to be.   
  


"Do you want me to light some candles?" the Mother Hen said, releasing his arm and moving away from him. "It's kind of dark in here."   
  


Spike barked out a harsh laugh. "Yeah, it is a bit bloody dark, innit?" he said sarcastically.   
  


"Sorry."   
  


And she was, Spike could tell, but not about the candles. She was sorry about cracking his head open. She was sorry about blinding him. She was sorry about not being able to remove the chip. She was sorry she turned him into a more pathetic creature than he was before. She was sorry that she was uncomfortable and wanted to leave. She was sorry that there was no chance in hell now that she'd ever fancy an invalid like him.   
  


"Just go, Slayer," Spike said. Just go before I beg you to stay, he added silently.   
  


"Okay." She walked up to him and put her hand on his arm. She smelled like his blood and apricots. He could hear her open her mouth to say something more, but changed her mind and released his arm. "G'night."   
  


"Yeah." Spike listened to her footsteps as she left the crypt, the heavy door clanging shut behind her.   
  


The first sob was ripped from him without warning. A black, hateful ache clawed at his chest. The taste of unfairness in the back of his throat was thick and acidic. The darkness closed around him, caging him. Trapping him. Laughing at him.   
  


Spike wanted to lash out and destroy things, but after two steps forward he was sprawled on the ground, having tripped over something he couldn't see. His face was pressed against the dirty cement, and the scent of blood was strong. His blood.   
  


Another sob and he pushed himself to his knees, looking around as if he could still see. But all that was there was an impenetrable blackness.   
  


He stood, almost falling again because of his seeming lack of balance. Arms outstretched, hiccoughing back another sob, he started walking forward, in search of his chair or his bed. His steps were slow, unsteady, tentative... fearful. The darkness taunted him with every one.   
  


He bumped into a solid object. Stone. Sharp corner. Heavy scent of his blood. The buzzing of hungry flies. The scene of the crime. He balled up his fist and hit the support column with a cry of rage. Then again and again. His knuckles scraped against the rough stone, and the smell of his blood grew stronger with each hit. But the pain in his fists didn't eclipse the pain he felt inside.   
  


As suddenly as it came on, the fight and anger left him. Misery and despair took their places, and yet another sob was dragged from deep within him. He turned around, slumped back against the column, and slid down to the ground. He pulled his legs to his chest, clasping his arms around them, and laid his forehead against his upraised knees.   
  


"Why?" Spike cried into the dirty denim covering his legs. "What did I ever do?"   
  


He could've sworn he'd been a good vampire and, before that, a good human. He'd always listened to his mother. He'd been faithful to Drusilla for over a century, catering to her every whim, loving her with his entire self. He'd caused chaos and death after he was turned, doing exactly what a vampire was supposed to do. He'd even killed two Slayers... although he'd gone and fallen for a third.   
  


Was that it? Was the evil branch of the Powers That Be castigating him for being in love with the mortal enemy of his kind? Was his sudden blindness -- caused by the very girl he loved -- a punishment?   
  


But what about the chip? What about the irremovable object lodged in his brain that would never run down and prevented him from being a true vampire? He hadn't fallen for Buffy -- at least, consciously fallen -- until long after the chip had been in place, almost a full year. In fact, he could say that the chip was what made him fall in love with her, since his obsession with killing her had been quashed by the thing, but not his obsession with _her_.   
  


"Why?" Spike repeated in a raw tone. "Just someone, please tell me why?"   
  


The only answer he received was the buzzing of the flies.   
  


 

*****   
  
  
  


Spike couldn't tell the difference between the nighttime and the day.   
  


Oh, the television had helped. Talk shows in the morning. Reruns of 80's mystery shows until one. Soap operas, cartoons, game shows. Prime time at eight. News, more talk shows, and then infomercials until the talk shows started again in the morning.   
  


But the sounds without the pictures had been confusing, and Spike had broken the television during an episode of _Magnum P.I._.   
  


Harmony had disappeared, and although Spike really didn't care a whit for her, it would've been nice to have someone there with him. Her incessant chatter would've make the crypt seem not so empty. The silence mixed with the constant darkness was horrid.   
  


It wasn't always silent, though. Buffy came by every-so-often with fresh blood and news of the weird. He should have been ecstatic: the girl of his dreams was purposely seeking him out and spending time with him. He should have been, but he wasn't.   
  


He could hear the guilt and pity in her soft voice.   
  


He could stand the guilt. The Slayer was one of the good guys, and she wasn't supposed to permanently injure defenseless creatures like his chipped self. He could delude himself into thinking that she could only feel guilt if she cared, which meant she had to care for him. Even if it was just a little.   
  


The pity, though, was killing him, both hers and his own self-pity. He was ready to walk into the sunlight... only he couldn't figure out whether it was nighttime or day. He supposed he could simply run outside, and if he burst into flames, he'd know it was daytime. But if he went outside and it was night, he'd have time to think about what he was doing, to panic, and there was a high possibility of him not being able to find his way back into the crypt.   
  


Days -- weeks? Who knew how long it'd been -- had passed with still no change in his vision. Spike could get around in his crypt without tripping every few steps. He knew how to get from his bed to his chair without running into the stone coffin in the center of the room. He could pace without crashing into the walls. He could undress to sleep without fear of being unable to find his clothing again, leaving him chipped, blind, and _naked_.   
  


But the quiet was driving him round the bend, and the constant darkness rode in the passenger seat. Soon, Dru would be sane compared to him. He needed to decide, one way or the other, if he was going to kill himself, before he completely lost it.   
  


Spike stood at the closed crypt door, his hand flat on the thick wood as if he could feel if there was sunlight outside. Depression hovered like a black cloud above his head.   
  


Once upon a time, he had a chip put into his head that prevented him from harming any living creature. He'd raged and cried, attempted suicide, and finally adjusted to having it. He'd made a deal to get it removed, failed that, but still had hope that it would eventually wear down or he'd find another way to get rid of it. A second failed attempt at getting it removed had angered him, but, again, he was used to having it and he still had hope.   
  


Then, one day, Buffy tossed him through the entrance to Dante's Hell without reading the warning sign above the gate. "'I am the way into the city of woe,'" Spike quoted softly, his finger tracing the wood grain on the door in front of him. "'I am the way to a forsaken people. I am the way into eternal sorrow.'"   
  


Hope had abandoned him the moment he'd learned the chip was forever, and so it had been fitting that he'd been surrounded by a black haze. "'They have no hope of death,'" Spike continued quoting the words he'd learned when he'd still had a heartbeat, "'and in their blind and unattaining state their miserable lives have sunk so low that they must envy every other fate.'"   
  


Spike dropped his hand and groaned. "Sod all, I've turned into a smeggin' poof!"   
  


Turning on his heel, he counted his steps as he stalked back into the crypt. Six from the door, three to the left, and he threw himself into the ratty old chair, which squeaked in protest. Bloody, bollocking, buggery hell, he thought irritably. His unlife fucking sucked.   
  


"In or out, mate," Spike muttered. "In or out. Just make a bleedin' decision."   
  


The last time he'd tried to off himself, Glinda and the Flying Monkey had bolloxed it up, and he'd learned that he could give non-humans a kickin' any time he bloody well wanted. He'd also proved could still bite using his words as his fangs.   
  


But where had those two consolation prizes gotten him? He fancied himself in love with the Slayer, he was an outcast to other demons, the chip turned out to be permanent, and he was, perhaps, irreversibly blind.   
  


Oi.   
  


Out was looking good. Of course, it would look even better if he could actually see.   
  


Being continuously in the dark absolutely bit. He had trouble lacing up his Docs, he pigged on himself every time he fed, and he couldn't find his fags. He was actually afraid to leave the crypt. Him! Cor! What the fuck was the world coming to?!   
  


"Yer loosin' it, Spike," the blond vampire dropped his head back and stared sightlessly at the ceiling, "You've gone completely barmy. Next time you get in a soddin' snit, don't take it out on the telly."   
  


There was actually good reason why he didn't want to venture from the crypt -- he was blind! He'd look like a wanker trying to navigate the cemetery, tripping over headstones that he couldn't see. He could get lost and would not be able to find shelter easily when the sun popped up. Worse, if he ran into other demons...   
  


Spike didn't bother to finish that thought. He was depressed enough as it was. "'...And made their faces stream with bloody gouts of pus and tears that dribbled to their feet to be swallowed there by loathsome worms and maggots.'" He half-smiled. "I guess Dante was a bit of all right, for an Eye-Tralian."   
  


The vampire heard the crypt door open and he quickly straightened. Tensed, he waited for the intruder to identify him- or herself. And what're you going to do if it's a bad guy, eh?, Spike asked himself. Ask 'em to stomp so you can hear where he's at?   
  


"Spike, are you home?" Harmony breezed into the crypt, her heels clicking on the cement floor. "Spikey?"   
  


Spike stood with a grin on his face. For once, he was glad to hear her voice. "I'm here, Harm."   
  


"Oh good, because I wanted to say goodbye," Harmony said brightly.   
  


Spike turned in the direction of her voice, a frown replacing the grin. "Goin' somewhere, pet?"   
  


"L.A.," Harmony told him, moving about. Spike heard his trunk opening and vampiress rooting around inside. "Dieter and I are moving there."   
  


"Dieter?"   
  


"Oh! Silly me." Heels clicking on the floor, Harmony crossed back towards the door. "Dieter, this is Spike. Spike, this is my new boyfriend, Dieter. Isn't he the honey-bunniest?"   
  


"Er, yeah," Spike said, hoping that he was looking in the correct direction. "Hey."   
  


"Back at ya."   
  


"Well, we're going to be going now," Harmony said. "I just stopped by to pick up my Prada bag and, you know, say toodlies. So, bye-ee."   
  


"Wait, Harm," Spike said quickly, taking a short step forward. "Can I talk to you a sec?"   
  


"Sure," Harmony agreed. "Dieter, sweety, why don't you wait for me in the car? I'll be right out."   
  


"You got it, babe."   
  


Babe?, Spike thought. Maybe he was glad he couldn't see the bloke.   
  


"Okay, Spike," Harmony said, walking towards him. "One kiss, but that's all."   
  


Spike held up his hands. "Not interested in a kiss, ducks. I need a favor."   
  


"Spike! I am in a committed relationship!"   
  


His brow furrowed in confusion before he rolled his eyes, an action he was happy he could still perform. "No, Harm, all I want is a ride to L.A."   
  


"Oh. Okay," she said. "Do you need time to pack or are you ready to go?"   
  


"Just let me grab my duster and some dosh," Spike replied. He took a step forward and bumped right into Harmony. "Er, 'scuse me, pet."   
  


Once Harmony moved, it was five steps across the crypt, sharp left, and six more steps to the trunk. Spike nudged the trunk with his toe before crouching in front of it. Harmony had left it open, and it was simply a matter of feeling around inside until he found his cache of money.   
  


Straightening, Spike faced left, took three steps to the bed, and ran his hand down the mattress until he found his duster. "Harm, close the trunk for me, will you?" he said as he slid his coat on. The money disappeared into his inner pocket as he listened to the vampiress. When the trunk lid slammed closed, he sent a quirky smile in that direction and held out his arms. "Give us a hug for old time's sake, luv?"   
  


"Aw," Harmony said, moving into his arms. "It's nice to see you're taking our breakup so well."   
  


"What can I say, I'm a modern guy," Spike said. He embraced her briefly, then slid his arm around her shoulder and subtly let her lead him towards the door. "So, pet, tell me all about Dieter."

 

 **Part Four**   
  


"'The Bates Motel.' Now why does that sound so familiar?" Harmony tapped her fingernails against the car window. "Hmm. Maybe I dated a Bates." Tap, tap, tap. "Oh well, if I don't remember, he must not have been that great."   
  


In the back seat of Dieter's car, Spike snickered softly. Trust Harm to choose such an appropriate motel and not know it.   
  


The ride to Los Angeles had been a test in patience for Spike. The two hour trip had seemed like fifty, but Spike had taken it as a challenge. If he could survive listening to Harmony and her new boyfriend sing along to the _same fucking N'Sync song_ the entire car ride, he could survive being blind.   
  


"Pull up by the office, snugglemuffin," Harmony directed. The front seat squeaked as she turned. "Spike, are you sure that you want to stay at a motel? Wouldn't a nice abandoned warehouse be more vampirey?"   
  


"And give up a soft mattress and the telly?" Spike snorted as the car came to a stop. "Not a chance." He felt for the doorhandle, wanting to escape before the singing started again.   
  


"Maybe we should stay at a hotel, too," Harmony commented. "But not here. I wouldn't be caught dead here."   
  


"You are dead, babe," Dieter pointed out.   
  


"Well, duh," Harmony said. "Why do you think I said that?"   
  


Spike rolled his eyes, but said, "Harm, walk with me to the office," before carefully climbing out of the car.   
  


"Do you want me to kill the desk clerk and get you a room?" she asked, slamming her car door shut.   
  


Spike had actually just wanted to use her as a guide dog, but... "Would you?"   
  


"Sure," she replied. "I know if I were an invalid, you'd do the same for me."   
  


For a moment, Spike had thought she'd figured out he was blind. Then he realized she was referring to his biteless state. "Gee, thanks," he said sardonically.   
  


Harmony toddled off with a chirpy, "Be right back." Spike stood beside the car, his hand on the roof so he didn't feel lost in his black world. Damn, but he wished he had a pack of smokes left. Somehow he'd have to figure out a way to obtain some.   
  


"You're in room 129," Harmony announced a few minutes later, her heels clicking on the pavement as she rejoined him. "I put your name into the computer so that if the police come, you won't be under suspicion."   
  


Harm knew how to use a computer? Spike was surprised by that and her actions. "That was a good idea, pet."   
  


"I know," she agreed. "I saw it on _Nash Bridges_ , and it took Cheech and Don until the very end of the episode to figure out who the murderer was."   
  


Cheech and Don. He should've known.   
  


Now, to get to room 129...   
  


Spike crooked his elbow. "Escort me to my room, luv, and I'll tell you what to watch out for here in LA. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you or your new beau," he lied sweetly. After one hundred miles of the Boyband from hell, she was lucky he hadn't killed them both and chanced driving himself.   
  


As Spike subtly let Harmony, once again, lead him to his room, he warned her about his poncey sire. He realized, as he suggested running if she ever saw Angel, that his thoughts about not caring weren't completely true. He _did_ care if Harm was staked or not. He had such a soft spot for women. He was soft, period.   
  


When Harmony stopped walking and let go of his arm, Spike figured they were at the room. The sounds of the late night traffic had dimmed, which meant the room was either on the other side of the building from the road, or in a courtyard. Wonderful. Just how in buggery hell was he going to find his way to the street again?   
  


Shoving his worrying aside, Spike held out his hand. Harmony slapped the oddly-shaped key chain into his palm. "I guess this is goodbye, Spikey," she said.   
  


"Guess so," Spike echoed, feeling a bit 'out there' because he wasn't touching anything.   
  


Harmony suddenly gave him a hug. "Take care of yourself, Spike. Out of all my old boyfriends, you were the best in bed."   
  


"Bye, pet," he said. The best in bed, eh? He could live with that.   
  


Spike listened to Harmony's as she walked away from him until he no longer could hear her clicking heels. Then, hoping that no one was watching, he tentatively felt to his left. Nothing but empty space. He tried to the right and, bingo, a door.   
  


The numbers were the raised type, and Spike could easily feel out the one, two, and nine. The door was easy to unlock, considering he'd blindly unlocked motel room doors before while passionately snogging some lucky bint up against 'em.   
  


Spike spent the next hour mapping out the room in his mind. The door opened to the left and clunked against the wall, which a long dresser was pushed up against. A television was bolted to the top of the dresser. A small bathroom was just beyond the dresser, with a sink, toilet, and curtained shower. Towels had been provided.   
  


A double bed with a night-stand on either side of it took up the remainder of the room. There were matching lights attached to the wall above both night-stands, and a telephone sat on one night-stand while the television remote was bolted to the other. Vinyl-type curtains covered the window on the same wall as the door, and Spike spent another twenty minutes attempting to make certain they were completely shut.   
  


Collapsing onto the bed with a loud squeak of protest from the box springs, Spike wished for the thousandth time that he had a pack of cigarettes. Even one -- even half of one -- and he'd be a happy vampire. He craved the calmness that smoking gave him -- a psychosomatic effect, considering the nicotine had no real effect on his dead body, but still... Only those who smoked knew how difficult functioning was without their cigarettes.   
  


"Bugger," Spike grumbled, pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes. He had a sharp headache behind his left one. It felt as if a needle was stuck into it. Probably caused by Harm and Dieter's singing, he thought in annoyance. It was too much to wish for that the headache be a sign that his vision was returning. Thinking like that only led to hope, and hope led to suicide.   
  


With a few choice obscenities, Spike sat up, shrugged out of his duster, and removed the sock full of money from the inside pocket. There was a large wad, all twenties Spike knew, and he slowly counted how much he had saved from his scare-muggings and providing information to the Slayer. Over the past year, since his chip had been implanted, he'd gotten used to paying for everything. It was a right pain in the arse.   
  


Money counted -- over five grand, not bad -- and stuffed back into the sock, Spike propped the two thin pillows against the headboard, turned on the television, and settled himself on the bed to listen. "All right, _Conan_ ," he said, folding his hands over his tee-shirt clad stomach. At least talk shows were mostly auditory, and listening to them reminded him of when radio was the only form of non-bloodshedding entertainment.   
  


For the first time since he'd been turned, Spike felt really old.   
  
  
  


*****   
  
  
  


Helen Keller. Ray Charles. Stevie Wonder. Neushchwna. The Januvi. Deep sea creatures. Bats. Angel and his sense of style.   
  


Spike rattled off in his mind everyone or thing that he could think of that was blind.   
  


Buffy.   
  


Nope, not gonna go there, Spike told himself. First off, he didn't want the Slayer to know that he fancied himself in love with her. Second, the only place he could toss off without worry was in the shower and he'd already taken one. He didn't want cum stains on his clothes because he couldn't see to wipe himself clean. It was bad enough that he looked like a slob from the blood stains. If he ever braved the grocers, he'd buy straws.   
  


Speaking of grocers and things available there, Spike was hungry. In his abrupt decision to leave Sunnydale, he'd forgotten the cooler that contained his blood supply. It had been full, too. Bugger.   
  


According to the show currently on the television, it was around ten in the morning. Spike had slept fitfully, dreams of being adrift in outer space plaguing his rest. Then, like every time he woke, he'd prayed that this time he would open his eyes and be able to see again.   
  


And, like every time he woke, he saw nothing but darkness.   
  


"What city and state?" the operator intoned in Spike's ear.   
  


"Los Angeles, California," Spike said into the phone.   
  


"Thank you. Go ahead."   
  


"I need the number for some sort of blind services place."   
  


"One moment, please."   
  


Spike hated asking for help -- was there anything less manly than admitting you couldn't do something by yourself? -- but it was either that or sunbathing. Besides, the last time he'd sought assistance, he'd gotten to kiss Buffy. Many times. Felt her up a bit, too. His disgust after the fact had all been for show -- who wouldn't want to snog with that ripe chit? It was only too bad Willow's cocked-up spell hadn't lasted longer, because he might've gotten into the Slayer's knickers.   
  


Spike hardened beneath his jeans, and frowned. No, no, no, he thought. Didn't he already have the 'no Buffy' conversation with his dick?   
  


"Here is the number for National Blind Services," the operator said. There was a pause and then the automated system voice came over the phone line. "The number is 290-555-1234. If you would like to be connected automatically for an additional twenty-five cents, press zero."   
  


Spike pressed zero, glad that he didn't need to remember the phone number in order to redial. The line rang, and the vampire turned off the television so he wasn't distracted.   
  


"National Blind Services, Vicki speaking, how may I help you?" a chipper female answered the call.   
  


"Er, yeah, um..." Very intelligent, mate. "I need to talk to someone about, er, learnin' how to do things blind."   
  


"For yourself or for a family member?" Vicki asked.   
  


"Myself," Spike replied.   
  


"And how soon would you like to come in for an initial appointment?"   
  


"How late are you open?"   
  


"Until six."   
  


"The closer to six, the better." Or else a dust-bunny would be attending the initial appointment.   
  


"Is 5:30 okay?"   
  


"Wonderful."   
  


"Do you have the address?" Vicki asked.   
  


"No, give it to me." Spike repeated the address in his mind as he rang off until he was sure he had it memorized, then he dialed information again to get a number for a local cab company.   
  


A few minutes later, he was good to go. The cab driver would meet him in the parking lot of the motel at five to take him to the National Blind Services office. Luckily for the vampire, the sun set early in the winter -- 4:28 p.m. according to the National Weather Service on the radio he'd found on the second night-stand.   
  


Getting food, though, was going to be a problem. In the past, when he was too lazy to go out, he'd dial up a pizza delivery place and eat the delivery boy. Post-chip, however, that option was out, and Spike doubted butcher shops delivered. Real life didn't have _Brady Bunch_ 's Sam, the Butcher, and Spike made a pretty ugly Alice anyway.   
  


Spike decided he would have to go hungry until he was able to get a cab ride to a grocers later that night. And forced himself to ask for help.   
  


It looked as though he'd be having _czarnina_ for dinner.   
  
  
  


*****   
  
  
  


It had taken from the time the sun set until the cab honked its horn for Spike to find the parking lot. His room had ended up being located in a courtyard and it had taken him forever to find the walkway out. It hadn't been _too_ embarrassing to ask the cab driver for assistance getting into the cab.   
  


"We're here," the driver said, pulling the four-door car to a halt. "That'll be $16.87."   
  


Surprised that the driver wasn't trying to gip him, Spike took out two twenties -- he'd taken the time earlier to count out $300.00 from his stash and put the money into his jeans pocket -- and held them up for the other man to see. "I'll give you a $20.00 tip if you help me inside to the information desk," the blond vampire said.   
  


"No problems there," the driver responded. Spike heard the car door open and close, then his door opened a moment later. "Curb's right here, so be careful getting out."   
  


Spike clenched the twenties in his fist as he climbed out of the car, the driver's hand firmly gripping the vampire's upper arm. The whiz of cars behind him was loud, indicating they were on a busy street. He could hear a steady hum of voices and a multitude of clacking of shoes on the sidewalk in front of him. A frisson of fear skittered down his spine. There were more people passing him right then than he'd probably seen all year back in Sunnydale -- when he could still see.   
  


It was his not being able to see the undulating throng passing within a few feet of him that was causing his fear. He couldn't tell how many people there were, where they were coming from, or how close they were. He was awash in a sea of noise that had no real meaning, lost in a darkness that choked him. He had an almost uncontrollable urge to jump back in the cab, slam the door shut, and curl up on the floor with his arms covering his head. In the silence, he might think depressing thoughts and brood like Angel-poof, but at least he didn't feel like he was standing at a precipice, blindfolded and one false step would send him hurtling over the edge to his death on the sharp rocks below.   
  


Spike hated the feeling of fear. He was a Master Vampire, capitalized as deserved. He was supposed to cause fear, not feel it himself. Especially not the paralyzing terror that gripped him at that very moment.   
  


The darkness's mocking laughter returned.   
  


"Hey, man, do you want to go inside or what? I can't stay parked here forever, you know?" The cab driver's voice cut into the laughter, and Spike shook off his terror. Spike wasn't alone, adrift; the driver had a strong hold on his arm. For twenty bucks, the other man would ensure safe passage across the River Styx... or was Spike supposed to pay a silver coin?   
  


Stifling back a semi-hysterical laugh, Spike took a step forward. The driver closed the cab door behind Spike, then practically dragged the vampire through the crowd of people leaving work for the day.   
  


The building in which the National Blind Services was housed had automatic doors, and the noise from outside was cut to nothing the instant he and the driver went through them. Spike's boots clunked on the uncarpeted floor as he was led further into the building. Soft voices grew louder, and he could hear the repeated dings of the elevators as well as the trilling of telephones.   
  


"Here we are, guy," the driver said, coming to a halt. He put Spike's hand on a cold countertop. "The Information desk."   
  


"Thanks," Spike said, shoving his other hand in the driver's direction. He opened his fist, felt the two twenties disappear, then heard the man walk away.   
  


"Can I help you?" a gruff male asked from behind the counter.   
  


The fear had gone, to be replaced by humiliation. Yet another favorite feeling of Spike's. "Yeah, I have an appointment at National Blind Services." The words were hard to get out, the acid of disgrace burning a hole in his tongue.   
  


"Do you need a guide?"   
  


What he needed was for Riley to have used a real stake instead of plastic. "Yes... er, please."   
  


A few minutes later, Spike was being whisked up in the elevator to the fourteenth floor, with a bubbly girl lightly touching his elbow. Her voice reminded him of a barking Chihuahua. He wanted to drop kick her off a very tall building.   
  


"National Blind Services offers _so_ much to the visually impaired...," yap, yap, yap, "...instruction, rehabilitation, transportation services, job placement, educational assistance...," yap, yap...   
  


... _yip! Aip! Aip! Aip!_   
  


Spike's imagination ran away with him, and a smirk curved his lips as the Chihuahua did a double gainer. The ding of the elevator and the light prompting of his guide brought him back to reality.   
  


"Count your steps," the girl said with pert authoritativeness. "Your counselor is Carmen, and you will always go to her office first upon arriving at NBS."   
  


The offices of National Blind Services, or NBS, were set up specifically for the visually impaired. Double-wide hallways and a simple straightforward layout with a minimum of furnishings made it easier for those who had a hard time or were unable to see.   
  


Spike counted his steps like a good little sprog, and wondered if he'd get a lolly if he remembered the number. The yapper-doggie escorted him to Carmen's office and put his hand on the back of a chair as she spoke to his counselor.   
  


He had a counselor. That sounded wrong.   
  


"Hello, Spike," Carmen greeted from somewhere in front of him. She had a Hispanic accent, Spike noted, and her voice was matronly rather than young and perky. "Please, sit down, and we'll get started."   
  


Spike slid his hand along the edge of the chair, finding the seat-bottom before he attempted sitting. Falling on his arse in front of a stranger wasn't something he wanted to do. He was embarrassed enough as it was for having to seek help.   
  


"First, let me introduce myself," Carmen began. "My name is Carmen Vensuela. I am a Certified Visual Rehabilitation Specialist and a RN. I've worked with National Blind Services for over fifteen years, and, before that, I've worked in the optometry field as a nurse for six years."   
  


Nice credentials, Spike thought. If he had to suffer the humiliation of having a counselor, at least it was someone with a solid background.   
  


"And now, for you," Carmen continued. He heard the shuffle of papers. "I am filling out an information sheet for your file, and anything you divulge will not go beyond the doors of this office."   
  


He had a counselor _and_ a file. How bloody special.   
  


"Your name is Spike Smith, correct?" Carmen asked.   
  


"Yes," Spike replied. And that was his name, according to the fake Driver's License he'd acquired years ago. The requirement to present ID to be able to fly had forced him into obtaining one for him and for Dru.   
  


"What is your current address?"   
  


"I'm staying at The Bates Motel." He managed to say it with a straight face. "Don't know the physical address, though."   
  


"Is that a temporary residence?"   
  


Spike shrugged. "I guess. Right now, it's fine for what I need."   
  


Carmen went on with her questions. Age, social security number, education? Lie, don't have, lie. How visually impaired was he, how did it happen, and how long had he been that way? Blind as a ruddy football ref, lie, and roughly a week after December 19 -- Spike would never forget the date he'd been staked.   
  


Medical history, allergies? Healthy as a dead horse that couldn't eat, couldn't see, and couldn't go out in the sunlight. Spike quashed the urge to say those things, and simply told her he had a form of _xeroderma pigmentosum_ and therefore couldn't go out in the sun. He'd learned about the skin disease from watching _ER_ , and it was the perfect cover for his vampirism.   
  


And people said watching television rotted the brain.   
  


She made sympathetic clucking noises and moved on to the next question.   
  


"Who is your insurance carrier?"   
  


"Don't have insurance," Spike replied.   
  


"Not even Medicaid?" Carmen asked.   
  


Spike shook his head. "I'm not an American citizen, ducks."   
  


"I hate to have to ask this," Carmen said, "but how will you pay for NBS's services? We offer some free programs--"   
  


"I'll pay in cash," Spike interrupted. "You do still take that as a form of currency, don't you?"   
  


"Of course," Carmen said. "However, it is rather expensive--"   
  


Spike interrupted again. "Then I'll learn as much as I can 'til I run out of dosh, and go from there."   
  


"I see that you're quite serious about obtaining NBS's services."   
  


"Of course I'm bloody serious!" Spike exclaimed in annoyance. "I've spent the past however many weeks sitting in the dark, contemplating offing myself, until I decided to give unlife one last go before saying _adieu_. Now, are you going to help me, or should I sod off back to Sunnydale and give away all my worldly possessions?"   
  


Carmen was silent for a moment, and Spike could feel her gaze on him, studying him. He shifted in his seat, feeling like a schoolboy under the teacher's disapproving eye. When she finally spoke, what she said wasn't at all what he expected.   
  


"Good for you," Carmen sounded proud of him. "Your anger will help keep you from getting discouraged. I won't lie to you. Learning how to function without sight is hard, frustrating, and, at times, depressing. Since you've been visually impaired for only a short period of time, it will be doubly hard to let go of the habits and reliance on other visual cues you've built up over the past twenty-eight years.   
  


"Now, with your medical condition, we're going to have a time limit on our sessions, so I'm going to rely on you to practice, practice, practice on your own during the day. You have obviously managed to get along and around for the past month, so I don't anticipate you'll have too much trouble mastering the cane. If you have problems, though, feel free to call me."   
  


Spike heard the wheelcasters on Carmen's chair as she pushed it back. "We have a few minutes left. Why don't I walk with you to one of the practice rooms so you can get an image of where we'll be spending most of our time."   
  


Before Spike knew it, Carmen's hand was lightly cupping his elbow and she was leading him out of the room.   
  


**Part Five**   
  


Shopping at the grocers had been a treat. Spike never wanted to do it again.   
  


The blond vampire lit up his fifth cigarette that hour and let the noxious smoke curl in his dead lungs. The television blared the groovy tunes of a _Scooby Doo_ chase scene in the other room. Behind him, the shower was on and hot steam filled the small bathroom.   
  


Spike exchanged the cigarette for room temperature duck's blood and grimaced as he drank the remainder of the quart. It hadn't been good cold and two days later it still sucked. But since he was planning on staying far away from any grocers, he'd made the blood stretch into three meals. Disgusting and unfulfilling. Man, he was living the good unlife now.   
  


He moved his foot until it hit the plastic rubbish bin, and dropped the empty blood container into it. The Bates Motel had a housekeeping service, although both days Spike had told the _señora_ to bugger off. He couldn't leave the room and he wasn't comfortable standing around like a ninny while the woman did her work. He could survive with dirty sheets and reused towels.   
  


Another pull on his fag, then he climbed into the shower. Scalding hot water trickled from the pitiful showerhead, but the stream was strong enough to peel the layer of self-loathing from his body.   
  


Spike shoved his head under the hot stream, melting his scalp and probably stripping the bleach from his hair. He closed his eyes and let the stinging water hide the tears of frustration, anger, and hopelessness that refused to be squelched. He only allowed himself to cry in the shower, where it couldn't be seen or heard because of the running water. Back in Sunnydale, he'd had to bury his head under a pillow when the unfairness of his unlife overwhelmed him.   
  


The feeling of unfairness swamped him today, and his tears tasted bitter on his tongue. The night before, he'd returned to NBS for his second appointment with Carmen, and he'd been fitted with a cane. He should have been fitted for a straightjacket.   
  


At first, having Carmen show him how to use the cane and then attempting to use it in the practice room at NBS had been fun. It was a new toy to play with. He'd learned how to fold and unfold it, and he'd found that it fit perfectly in his duster pocket. He could also tuck it in the back pocket of his denims and sit without it being uncomfortable.   
  


After he'd given Shelley, the NBS Billing Service Director, more than half his sock of money, he'd let the Chihuaha, who's name was really Lisa, escort him to a waiting cab. Having her guide him to and from his cab and NBS was a money-saving break that he was thankful for, considering the amount of cash he'd dished out to Shelley. If he kept having to tip the cab drivers huge sums of money for extra escort service, he'd be broke way too soon for his liking.   
  


Spike could get from his motel room to the parking lot and back without trouble. His head was so full of numbers from counting steps he was surprised his brain hadn't exploded. But counting steps was better than having to ask others for help, or tripping and falling on his face.   
  


Spike had walked by himself from the lot to his room the night before, after his NBS session. He'd immediately flipped on the television -- _Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?_ was on from 6:30 to 7:00 and again from 7:30 to 8:00, weeknights -- lit up a cigarette, took out his cane -- which bore his name and NBS's phone number courtesy of Carmen and her clear printer labels -- and played with it.   
  


Using the cane had been amusing. It'd made a great sound when he whapped it on the bed. He'd been pretty sure he could do some damage with it in a fight. The cane was made of wood coated in waterproof plastic. It was strong and unbendable, with a metal tip at the end and a thick strand of elastic that ran through the segmented parts. He'd suspected it was white, a brilliant white that shone like a beacon, proclaiming: "Look at me, I'm blind, now get the bloody hell out of the way!"   
  


Spike had used the cane in his room, holding it slightly off the ground and gently swinging it in a smooth arc as Carmen had demonstrated. It'd been difficult to get the repetitive motion started, but once he'd gotten underway, a natural rhythm had formed.   
  


He'd traversed the room several times before making things more interesting by tossing stuff onto the floor. It'd become much harder to judge when to step over an object after the cane hit it, rather than stepping on it. Or tripping and falling, which he'd done numerous times. It'd been a good thing he'd been smart enough not to use his carton of smokes as an obstacle, or else he'd have been one very ticked off vampire come the following afternoon.   
  


Spike had stopped playing when Prime Time started on the television, and he'd sat and listened for three hours. The network hadn't been lying when they'd called it "Must See" TV. _ER_ had been impossible to understand.   
  


When the news had come on, Spike had fed, counted the amount of money he had left, then played with the cane again. Spinning in a few fast circles before starting had just made him dizzy and feel like a complete wanker, so he'd kiboshed that idea quickly. Instead, he'd gathered up his 'obstacles' and re-scattered them, then stepped on and tripped over them until he'd gotten angry and quit.   
  


It hadn't hit him until the following late morning, when he'd woken up to the darkness once again, that he'd been given and was using a cane. Big Bad Spike had been reduced to a blind, biteless fool. "Ladies and gentlemen, see how the vampire uses money to pay for things he should steal or kill for. Watch in amazement as he tries to feed from humans and screams in pain. Laugh as he uses a blindman's cane, he adores the humiliation."   
  


Spike knocked his head several times on the shower wall, repeating: "Why? Why? Why?" with each solid hit. He was probably going to get a goose-egg and pretty bruise on his forehead. But, like everything, _except for his fucking vision_ , it would heal.   
  


He slammed the single-faucet shower control to off, and dashed the hateful tears from his face. He felt around for the towel he'd thrown over the curtain rod, but couldn't find it. Cursing, he shoved back the mildew-smelling shower curtain, stepped over the lip of the tub, put his foot down in a puddle of water, and promptly slipped.   
  


"Yeow! DAMNIT!" Spike pulled his leg out of the tub and laid still for a few moments on the bathroom floor. His thigh throbbed where he hit it on the edge of the tub, and he pulled his groin muscle. It hurt. A lot.   
  


Sitting up, he ran his hand through his wet hair, felt for the sink, and used it to pull himself to his feet. The cigarette was right where he'd left it, and he took a slow pull.   
  


He ignored the laughing darkness.   
  


Cigarette dangling from his lips, Spike carefully tugged his jeans over his wet body and buttoned them. His stomach let him know that one-third of a quart of duck's blood wasn't enough. He told his stomach to fuck off.   
  


He padded out of the bedroom, counting his goddamned steps, turned off the television, and turned on the radio. "...Listening to National Public Radio. The time is 3:43 on this sunny January afternoon..."   
  


Spike had another session with Carmen at 5:15 and one on Saturday at the same time. He was scheduled to meet with her every day, except Sundays, for Intensive Visual Rehabilitation. How politically correct. He would've called it Classes for Blind Wankers or Circus Freak Training.   
  


There was a firm rap on his motel room door. The housekeeper had already been and gone, so Spike knew it couldn't be her. He felt for the ashtray on the night-stand and stabbed out his cigarette, then stood and went to answer the knock.   
  


Keeping himself partially behind the door to protect himself from any sunlight, Spike stared blindly in the direction of outside, and said, "Yeah?"   
  


"I'm Detective Lockley with the LAPD, and I'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."   
  


"What about?" Spike said, even though he already knew. Harm certainly did have her moments.   
  


Detective Lockley sounded tough, weary, and not happy. Spike immediately wondered what she looked like. Female cops, in his experience, were either dog-ugly or tomboy sexy. Which was she?   
  


"When was the last time you saw the manager, Mr. Chavez?" she asked.   
  


A dry-as-dust smirk curled his lips. "I've never seen, Mr. Chavez, Detective."   
  


"What about when you checked in?" Detective Lockley prompted.   
  


"Can't say I saw him then, either."   
  


The unseen Detective blew out an annoyed breath of air. "Sir, you can either answer my questions here, or I can take you down to the station and ask you."   
  


"Then you need to ask the right questions, ducks," Spike said. Antagonizing her was sort of fun. He hadn't toyed with anyone since Buffy bashed his skull. "By the way, you don't happen to resemble Yancy Butler, do you?"   
  


"What?" She sounded flabbergasted. "You think I look like Yancy Butler?"   
  


"Sweetheart, you could look like Bill Murray and I wouldn't be able to tell," Spike said sardonically. "But, to answer your first question...," so he didn't get arrested and yanked out into the sun, "...I don't know who Mr. Chavez is. I spoke with someone in the office when I checked in, but I never got his name."   
  


Half lie, half truth. He didn't know if Mr. Chavez was the bloke Harmony munched, but he strongly suspected it was. Spike also hadn't checked himself in, but the Detective needn't know that.   
  


"It says in the computer that you checked in on December 30th, is that true?"   
  


"If that's what the computer says," Spike hedged. He really didn't need to be linked to Harmony's kill. It wasn't as if he could do anything against the all-too-human police if they decided he was a suspect. "I haven't really gotten the hang of telling the days apart yet."   
  


"Telling the days...," Detective Lockley trailed off. There was a brief moment of silence, then, "Sir, excuse my bluntness, but are you blind?"   
  


"Complete with cane," Spike replied derisively.   
  


"Oh. Okay, then," she said. "I have no further questions. Thank you for your time."   
  


"You never did tell me...," he paused.   
  


"Tell you what?"   
  


Spike grinned. "Whether you look like Yancy Butler or not."   
  


A snort was his answer, followed by her footsteps walking away. 

 

 **Part Six**   
  


Practice, practice, practice.   
  


_Práctica, práctica, práctica._   
  


"Put obstacles in your way," instructed Carmen.   
  


Spike threw more crap on the floor and walked over or around it.   
  


"Stairs. Up and down," said Carmen.   
  


Jim, the security guard, gave Spike permission to use the stairs at the NBS building.   
  


"Curbs and cars," taught Carmen.   
  


Spike ventured out into the motel parking lot late at night, banged into cars, and tripped over the parking curbs.   
  


"Let's take a walk around the block," suggested Carmen.   
  


Spike blanched whiter than he already was, wondered if it would be uncouth to stake himself with his cane, then went for his first stroll on the crowded sidewalk with Carmen and the Chihuahua.   
  


"Public transportation is the cheapest way to get around," informed Carmen.   
  


Spike had chocolate and Reese's peanut butter cup ice cream and Carmen had vanilla with rainbow sprinkles after a bus ride to Maggie Moos.   
  


"Will you please go and get me the new issue of _Ladies Home Journal_ at the drug store across the street?" asked Carmen.   
  


Spike told himself he was the Big Bad, held his cane in a death grip, and made his first true venture out alone.   
  


When Spike wasn't practicing, practicing, practicing, he spent his time listening to the television or radio, and pestering one Detective Kate Lockley.   
  


"LAPD -- 115."   
  


"Detective Lockley, please."   
  


"Lockley."   
  


"Hello, Yancy Butler. How are you?"   
  


"LAPD -- 115."   
  


"Detective Lockley, please."   
  


"Lockley."   
  


"Yancy."   
  


"Can you not call me that?"   
  


"What should I call you then, ducks?"   
  


"Detective."   
  


"LAPD -- 115."   
  


"Detective Lockley, please."   
  


"Lockley."   
  


" _Detective_ Yancy."   
  


"If I ask, will you stop calling me?"   
  


"Of course... no, probably not. At least, not until you have a drink with me."   
  


"It's Kate."   
  


"LAPD -- 115."   
  


"Detective Lockley, please."   
  


"Lockley."   
  


"So, Kate, how about that drink? I'm all for that feminist bollocks. I'll let you pick me up and drive, pull out my chair... hell, I'll even let you pay."   
  


"Spike, you have to be the most annoyingly persistent man I've ever met."   
  


"Is that a yes?"   
  
  
  


*****   
  


Spike entered NBS for his nightly appointment wearing a large grin. Kate had _finally_ agreed to get a drink with him. Not that he was interested in pursuing an actual relationship with her -- he was still hard for Buffy -- but he was bored, Kate was a sardonic adult with normal conversational skills, and he hadn't had a beer in longer than he'd liked to admit.   
  


Things were going pretty well in his constantly dark unlife. He still tripped and fell, got frustrated and angry often, hated that he was blind and sometimes became extraordinarily depressed. But now, thanks to Carmen, he knew how to fold his money so he could tell the value of each bill; he could take the bus to NBS -- a much cheaper form of transportation than cabs -- and get to the fourteenth floor office without help; Lisahuahua found a butcher shop -- ironically, Sam's Butcher Shop -- near the motel, which Spike could walk to, and he'd made arrangements to buy blood from there; and he'd found a coin laundry room at the motel where he could wash his clothes.   
  


He was running out of money, though. The new motel manager charged $75.00 per week for the room, and blood cost a pretty penny. Plus, doing laundry was expensive, and the price of a carton of cigarettes had gone up again.   
  


"Hello, Spike," Carmen greeted as Spike walked into her office, with only his cane as a guide. "You look happy. Good day?"   
  


"'S'alright," Spike replied. "I finagled myself a date for tomorrow night."   
  


" _Fantasticó_ ," Carmen said. "Where are you going?"   
  


Spike shrugged. "A pub, most likely."   
  


"Then tonight we'll work on dining in public," she said. "I hope Oreo cookies will satisfy as the main course."   
  


They moved to the practice room, where Carmen set up several tables and chairs. She put in a cassette of "dinner conversation" and the room was filled with the steady conversation of invisible patrons and the clinking of forks against plates. Spike maneuvered through the tables using his cane, following Carmen's voice over the din.   
  


Once seated, she showed him how to flag away the menu and request a dish summary; how to position items on the table -- similar to her previous mealtime lessons, which the vampire had found amusing; and how to subtly ask for the amount of the bill.   
  


In the middle of their four-course cookie meal, right after Carmen taught him about paying the bill, Spike broached the subject of money and his upcoming lack thereof. Embarrassment burned his cheeks, but he was surprisingly grateful to the woman. She'd worked well past six o'clock because of his "disease" as the sun began to set later; she'd taught him how to get around on his own, even though he hadn't really ventured anywhere other than the butcher shop and NBS; and, horrors upon horrors, she'd given him hope that he would survive this second atrocity that had happened to him.   
  


"Do you feel ready to attempt employment?" Carmen asked suddenly.   
  


"Employment?" Spike was stunned.   
  


"Yes," Carmen said. "There are several jobs available at the O.W.D. Incorporated factory, third shift. I could arrange for you to work seven hours per day, six days per week, so that you would be employed full-time and therefore be eligible for benefits without worrying about your skin condition. I would need a copy of your green card..."   
  


Spike was no longer listening. Green card? Factory work? _Employment?_ Being a biteless, blind vampire was awful enough, now he had to get a _job_?! _Him?!_   
  


"'Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to work we go.'"   
  


Great, the darkness not only laughed, it sang, too.   
  


*****   
  


"...James Curtis is up next, from eight to midnight, here on NPR. Happy _Cinco de Mayo_. Goodnight--"   
  


Spike clicked off the radio and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray on the night-stand. Kate would be arriving at any time for their date. He was anxious and nervous as hell. Not about the date part -- he could sweet talk a chit out of her knickers in minutes if he wanted to -- but the 'going out in public to a place he didn't know' part. Despite having learned to get around on his own, he still hadn't gone anywhere unless on assignment by Carmen. He was afraid to -- afraid of looking the fool.   
  


Unlife hadn't been the picnic it once was since the Initiative chipped him. The demon community was not that compassionate when it came to its incapacitated members. The weakest and the injured were normally culled from the pack. If Spike hadn't been old enough, quick enough, and fight-savvy enough, he would've been dust in the lyrical wind.   
  


He'd always been too big for his britches, according to Angelus, and that meant he got into more trouble than he avoided. Even with the chip, Spike had managed to cause chaos, mainly to his fellow demons, but a few times he'd harmed humans incidentally. He'd adjusted to having the chip, though he hated it with a fiery passion, and he'd adjusted to being the constant butt of jokes within the non-human -- and even a portion of the human -- arena. To them, he was "the impotent vampire", "the neutered one", "Slayer wannabe", or, Spike's favorite, "the embarrassment."   
  


Spike wasn't embarrassed about being blind, though. He was angry and hateful, but not embarrassed, not like he'd been embarrassed about having gotten caught and implanted by the Initiative. There was the potential for embarrassment, however, in going out tonight, increased by the fact that he was going to be with a woman he'd flirted with for months. If the Powers That Be had cursed him -- which he strongly believed they had, only not with a soul because that would be cliche -- then humiliation could be forthcoming, followed by more anger and a bout of depression.   
  


Oh joy.   
  


There was a knock at Spike's motel room door, and the vampire took a purposeful, fortifying breath before opening it. "Kate?"   
  


"Hey, Spike," Kate greeted, her tone friendly, but wary. "Ready to go?"   
  


"I'm good," Spike replied, checking to be sure he had his key as he stepped out the door. The segments of his white cane clicked into place as it opened.   
  


"So, uh, what do I do?" Kate asked stiffly.   
  


Spike crooked his right elbow, the cane in his left hand. As Carmen taught him, he instructed Kate how to unobtrusively lead a blind person. "Lightly cup my elbow and walk normally. Just tell me if you're suddenly going to stop or turn," he said. "Are you in the front lot?"   
  


"Yes," she answered.   
  


They made their way out of the courtyard in an uncomfortable silence. Spike felt his cheeks already starting to burn in humiliation. Did he lose his ability to speak when he lost his sight? Had it been so long since he'd done anything socially that he'd become like his wanker of a sire?   
  


Spike mentally shuddered. He never wanted to become like Angel. It was bad enough they were related by blood, once removed, and that Spike had, at one time, thought of the plonk as his true sire. Dru may have made Spike, but Angelus had taken the time to teach him the less foofy stuff when it came to being a vampire. But time, souls, and a slip of a girl had come between them, and Spike would rather not have anything to do with Angel ever again, if he could help it.   
  


Spike cleared his throat after Kate's SUV got underway. "Well, now that the painfully awkward silence portion of the evening is done, where are you dragging me to?"   
  


Kate chuckled. "The Blue Bar," she replied. "I hope that's okay."   
  


"Fine by me, Yance," he said with a shrug.   
  


"Not again," Kate groaned.   
  


Spike laughed, and the tension was broken. On the drive, they started debating about the music playing on Kate's radio and arguing over which classic rock band was better than which.   
  


They both laughed as they walked into the Blue Bar to hear a song by the band they were arguing over playing on the jukebox. The Blue Bar was only semi-crowded for a Saturday night. Men and women were scattered amongst the booths along the wall, the tables in the center, and the bar on the far side of the pub.   
  


Spike's cane lightly tapped against wooden booths on his left as Kate steered him to a seat. He was tense and could feel eyes on him. He heard several calls of "Hey, Lockley!" and he turned his gritted teeth into a false smile. "I'm guessing this is a cop bar," he said as he slid into a booth seat. His cane disappeared into his duster pocket before he shrugged out of the coat.   
  


"You guessed correctly," Kate said from across the rickety table. "I figured better safe than sorry, if you turned out to be a serial killer."   
  


"No worries, pet," Spike said. "My serial killing days are, unfortunately, over. You'll have to settle for simple sexual deviancy."   
  


Kate chuckled. "In that case, maybe we should go somewhere that I won't be saved."   
  


"Speaking of sexual deviancy," Spike said with a smirk. "I don't even know what you look like."   
  


"I'm blond, blue-eyed, and could kick your ass from one end of this bar to the other," Kate said matter-of-factly.   
  


Spike's smirk grew. "My kind of gal. Maybe we should go somewhere else after all."   
  


Spike felt someone approach the booth, and he turned his head and raised his chin as if he could actually see the person that stopped at the table. His action was a form of politeness that Carmen had drilled into his skull. That woman had gotten him to do the most undemon-like things.   
  


"Here ya go, Lockley," a gruff male said, thunking two bottles onto the tabletop.   
  


"Thanks, Jeff," Kate said. As Jeff walked away, she lowered her voice and said to Spike, "Don't be surprised if several people stop by to check out the man who managed to drag me away from my desk."   
  


More scrutiny, what fun, Spike thought. But it beat sitting in the motel room, brooding. One brooder in the Aurelius clan was plenty, two would be overkill. "So, Kate," he began, carefully searching for the beer Jeff had set on the table. "How was your day? Any horrible homicides that you want to share, complete with gory detail?"   
  


Laughing, Kate responded, and the night got underway. As the evening progressed, conversation and beer flowed steadily. Kate was correct in her prediction of people stopping by the table. They taunted Kate and greeted Spike with a smile in their voices until he looked up at them. Then they grew silent, said goodbye shortly thereafter, and left.   
  


"Do I have something in my teeth?" Spike asked, when yet another cop scurried away.   
  


"No," Kate replied. "I think your eyes unnerve them."   
  


"They're not crossed or something, are they?" Oh, _that_ wouldn't be humiliating.   
  


"No, they're normal. It just looks like you're staring through a person, or over their shoulder, instead of looking at them."   
  


"Interesting, considering I'm not looking anywhere at all," Spike said. He never really stopped to think about how he looked to others. He was so used to not having a reflection, he could "make himself pretty," as Dru used to say, without the use of his eyes.   
  


"How long have you been blind?" Kate asked, curiosity without malice in her tone.   
  


"Since December. I was in a motor accident," he lied, using the same cover story he'd given to Carmen. He tapped the back of his head. "Damaged my occipital lobe, and now I'm blind. That's why I'm in L.A., to learn how to function like any normal bloke who can't see shite."   
  


"In my non-expert opinion, you seem to be doing fine," Kate said. "A little mental for wanting to get a drink with me, but on the whole..."   
  


"Well, I was pretty desperate for a beer," Spike said, smirk returning. A pretzel hit him in the center of his chest. "Hey, now! No need to throw things at me."   
  


The evening degenerated from there. They left the Blue Bar shortly after midnight under a flurry of "Later, Lockley!"s, chortling like a pair of loons from a particularly raunchy joke. Spike was even able to ignore the stares he felt as he used his cane.   
  


Spike could honestly say that he'd had a good time with Kate. He still didn't know if she looked like Dogzilla or not, but he wasn't planning to bed her so it didn't matter. For once, he actually wanted a friend and not a lover, someone he could call on without the romantic entanglements that caused more problems than were worth. Well, Dru had been worth it, he thought. And Buffy, although he hadn't gotten anywhere with her. Yet.   
  


Luckily, Kate felt the same way. She'd made it perfectly clear that she wasn't interested in "that relationship crap," as she put it. She wanted a distraction from work, even if she ended up talking about her job while they were out. Spike didn't mind being labeled a distraction, because it gave him carte blanche to phone and annoy her when he was bored.   
  


"Here we are," Kate said, pulling the SUV to a stop. "Do you need me to walk you to your door?"   
  


"Are you planning on kissing me?" Spike asked with a leer in her direction.   
  


"Only if you promise to turn into a handsome prince," Kate replied dryly.   
  


"Ouch," Spike covered his heart, "that hurt, right here."   
  


"Yeah, yeah," Kate said. "Whatever you say, Spike. Now, get out of the car."   
  


"Rude chit," Spike said, smiling. He felt for the handle and opened the car door. "G'night."   
  


"Goodnight," Kate echoed.   
  


Spike climbed out of the SUV and closed the door behind him. His cane clicked in a hated familiar way as it unfolded, and he maneuvered between a pair of parked cars to the sidewalk. He knew to head left until he reached a wall, then to turn right to go down the hallway to the courtyard. Turning left at the wall would take him to the motel office.   
  


Back in his room and glad that his humiliation prediction did not come true, Spike refolded his cane and set it on the night-stand, then laid his duster on the dresser beside the television. His Docs were lined neatly against the dresser, the toes underneath it, socks tucked into each boot. Jeans and tee removed, folded, and placed in the top drawer. "Always put your belongings in the same place," Carmen had taught. "And being neat will make things easier."   
  


He was so neat now he rivaled Angel in the Tight-Ass competition.   
  


After lighting a cigarette, the vampire turned on the radio to find out the time. He knew he should purchase one of those talking watches for the visually impaired. Lisahuahua said she could hook him up with a used one for cheap as long as he didn't mind that the watch looked like it'd been through a warzone. A fashionably conscience vampire he was not.   
  


It was late night Saturday, technically Sunday morning, but most didn't claim the start of a new day until they'd slept. For Lukas, the procurer of anything for the right cost, it was the only time he arranged new business. Spike picked up the phone receiver and dialed. The line only rang once before it was answered.   
  


"Yeah?" Lukas said over the line.   
  


"Identification," Spike said.   
  


"Kind?"   
  


"Green card."   
  


"A quarter."   
  


"Not a problem."   
  


"Tuesday, eleven p.m., back booth at Siggy's," Lukas instructed, then hung up.   
  


Spike put the receiver in the cradle, set his cigarette in the ashtray, and sighed. He could afford the $250.00 cost, which was cheap compared to some forms of identification, but after that he'd be close to broke and would therefore have to get a job.   
  


Maybe Kate could get him a job at the City Morgue. All the mostly fresh human blood he could drink for free and without the searing pain in his head, since those that frequented the morgue were usually corpses. Or he could be a janitor, with a cane in one hand, push broom in another.   
  


With a slightly maniacal giggle, Spike began to thump the back of his skull against the headboard until his neighbor banged on the wall and yelled for him to stop having sex so loudly. The vampire laughed hollowly, scooted down on the bed, and buried his head under the pillow.   
  


Spike, the Employee. It had such a wonderful ring to it. Humans and non-humans everywhere were quaking in their boots.   
  


Why couldn't Riley's stake have been real?   
  


**Part Seven**   
  


Siggy's was located on the outskirts of the "bad part" of Los Angeles -- not that there was a "good part." Squashed between a tattoo parlor and an adult book store, Siggy's sat while street hustlers and prostitutes, card sharks, and salesmen set up shop on the sidewalks up and down the street. Demons, half-demons, and humans that were tougher than some demons were just starting to emerge as the sun set on the horizon.   
  


Spike climbed out of the cab, shut the door behind him, and stepped up onto the curb. According to the driver, the door to Siggy's was directly across from Spike, and there was a bus stop two blocks north from the bar. With the meeting taking place at eleven, Spike hoped he'd be able to catch the last bus, which ran at midnight, back to the motel. He'd hate to have to call for a cab.   
  


The newly painted black cane unfolded with its ususal clicks, and Spike headed for the door. He'd convinced Carmen at their session the night before to allow him to paint the white cane black. "For vanity reasons," he'd told her. He wanted to be less conspicuous, and that meant painting over the brilliant white cane that practically screamed: "Look at me!"   
  


Counting his steps, Spike walked to Siggy's door and went inside. The noise from the street was replaced with the soft notes of jazz playing on the jukebox. He could feel a few pairs of eyes on him -- the early bird drinkers -- but on the whole the bar was relatively empty. The usual patrons didn't start filling the place until after nine.   
  


Spike had been to Siggy's in the past so he had a general remembrance of how the bar was set up. He'd purposely come as soon as he was able in order to walk the place and reaffirm the layout in his mind. He needed to exude confidence once the other patrons arrived, or he'd might as well stamp "victim" on his forehead and beat himself bloody.   
  


He took a step forward, then a second, knocking his cane against a waist-high divider to his right until the short wall ended. A military turn to the right, and he made his way past the tables lining the front of the establishment to the jukebox in the corner. Another military turn, this time to the left, and he was at the bar in a few steps, his cane clinking against the metal legs of the stools.   
  


Spike removed a ten dollar bill from the front pocket of his jeans -- he had the money for Lukas counted, rubber-banded, and stashed in a liberated NBS envelope in the inner pocket of his duster -- and set the money on the bar, keeping his hand flat on top of it. "Stoli's, neat," he ordered.   
  


A few seconds later, a glass thunked on the bar top in front of Spike. "One Stoli's, neat," the bartender said.   
  


Spike looked in the direction of the bartender's gravely voice. "I'm going to walk the room. Will there be a problem with that?" the vampire asked with a hint of a growl.   
  


"No skin off my nose," the bartender replied. "Just don't bother the other customers."   
  


Spike nodded, and removed his hand from over the ten. He found his drink, took a sip, and set it on top of the bill, indicating he would be at the bar for awhile. The bartender went to answer an order further down the bar, but Spike could feel himself being carefully watched by the man.   
  


Spike wanted to be in a position where he could easily get to the back booth. He'd persuaded the Lisahuahua to loan him a watch for the night, and he planned on staying at Siggy's, therefore he wasn't worried about missing his appointment with Lukas.   
  


Late last Saturday night, after hours of internal flogging and half a carton of cigarettes, Spike had resigned himself to the fact that he was going to become a member of the workforce. Working was such a human trait that it made his stomach turn, but it was the choice he'd made.   
  


On Sunday, he'd forced himself to sit down and make some decisions about the future. He'd faced several truths head-on: he would always have the chip and would never be able to intentionally harm a human; his sight was not going to return; Drusilla would never come back to him now; and he would have to have money in order to take care of himself. Other demons would just as soon eat him than help him eat, and he refused to stoop so low as to accept pity handouts from humans again. Going to Buffy and Company after escaping from the Initiative had provided enough humiliation to last him a century, he didn't need to add more.   
  


Self-sufficiency was important to Spike. He was a Master Vampire, handicapped or not. If he chose to continue unliving, he had to fully accept and adjust to his new limitations. He'd already started down that path by religiously going to NBS and learning to use a cane. He'd simply had to decide if he wanted to go on or go sunbathing.   
  


Suicide was a coward's way out, and no one would get away with calling Spike a coward. Not even himself.   
  


He conveniently forgot the fact that he'd tried to commit suicide before. His declaration sounded much more impressive that way.   
  


*****   
  


Siggy's had gotten crowded as the night wore on, the small bar filling with customers both human and non. The music from the jukebox had changed from jazz to hard rock, but the loud voices of the patrons drowned most of it out.   
  


Spike had changed his seat to the other end of the bar, and had switched from drinking Stoli's to beer. He nursed each bottle for as long as possible, usually until the bartender returned to ask if he wanted a refresher. The blond didn't want to give the bartender an excuse to kick him out for loitering.   
  


Some of the patrons had tried to strike up conversations with Spike, but he politely put them off. Rudeness at Siggy's could lead to a fight, and that was not something the vampire was interested in. He just wanted to meet with Lukas, purchase his green card, and catch the bus back to the motel.   
  


"Ten fifty-eight p.m.," a mechanical voice said when Spike held the watch to his ear and pushed the button. He'd been checking the time continually throughout the night, not wanting to be late.

Swallowing back the rest of his beer, Spike set the bottle on the counter and stood. This was it, he thought, taking his cane from his pocket. He was on his own, about to maneuver through a crowded bar using his cane, announcing to all those present that he was blind.   
  


Spike couldn't decided whether he had the biggest pair of wrinklies around, or if he was the stupidest git on the planet.   
  


Squaring his shoulders, Spike opened his black cane and tapped the tip twice on the wood floor, gaining the attention of those closest to him. "Excuse me," he said, half-sensing where the patrons stood in conjunction to him. He slowly took a step away from the bar, starting a shortened swing-arc with the cane. Another step forward, then another. He could feel the others watching him, a sensation he hated, as he made his way to the back booth.   
  


His cane made a hollow sound as it hit the edge of a booth, and Spike hoped he'd reached the correct one. He cleared his throat. "Lukas?"   
  


"Sit down."   
  


Derisively congratulating himself on reaching the correct table, Spike patted the seat to the left of the voice and slid into the booth. His cane was quickly folded and set on the table in front of him. In his mind, he pictured how Lukas had looked the last time he'd met the half-demon: larger than normal head, human features with over-pronounced brow, dreadlocks, grey-brown skin tone.   
  


Across from him, Spike heard the pages of a book turn. "Tuesday, eleven, green card," Lukas said, indicating he was looking at an organizer. "A quarter."   
  


Spike took the envelope from the inner pocket of his duster and slid it in Lukas's direction. He listened as the sealed envelope was opened and the rubber-banded money fanned. The vampire refrained from growling at the disrespect Lukas showed by counting the money in front of him. He needed that green card.   
  


"What name do you want on the green card?" Lukas finally asked.   
  


Keeping the bite from his voice, Spike supplied the information as Lukas requested it. The green card needed to match the fake Driver's License, which Carmen had a photocopy of in his file. She was going to use both to obtain employment for him -- whoopie -- and he didn't want anything to screw that up. Of course, he had no way of knowing how real the green card looked, or if the information really did match his fake license. He'd have to trust that Lukas wasn't going to take advantage of a blind person.   
  


Trust wasn't Spike's strong suit, but what was he going to do? Ask a passing bar patron if his illegally obtained ID looked authentic?   
  


The benefit of using Lukas, however, was that he produced the item requested almost immediately. While Spike sat there, he could hear the tapping of a keyboard as the other man created the false identification. If Spike remembered correctly, Lukas had a small portable color printer and a small laminating machine that he carried in a thick metal briefcase, along with a laptop and other tricks of the modern forgery age.   
  


"Here you are, Mr. Smith," Lukas said, putting the new green card in Spike's hand. "It is a pleasure doing business with you."   
  


Spike knew a dismissal when he heard one. Putting the identification in his inner coat pocket, he nodded in Lukas's direction, stood, and unfolded his cane. He made his way to the front door without incident, having memorized how to get there from the booth earlier. The other patrons of the bar ever-so-nicely moved out of his way with a maximum of staring and whispers about the blind man.   
  


Out on the street, Spike sighed in relief. One green card obtained and paid for, he thought, and one vampire unscathed. He hit the button on his borrowed watch. "Eleven thirty-seven p.m.," the mechanical voice intoned. Spike smiled. He would even make the bus.   
  


Turning north, the blond vampire headed up the block, keeping near the buildings as he was taught. In the few months that had passed, his hearing had become sharper, as had his other three senses. It was interesting how his body had compensated for his loss of sight even though he was undead. Spike could tell the direction of the traffic on the street, pre-warning him of when he was approaching an intersection. By listening, he knew when it was safe to cross... well, as safe as it could get when crossing the street in Los Angeles.   
  


On the second block north of Siggy's, Spike came to a stop and waited until he felt someone walk near him. "'Scuse me," he said quickly. "Can you direct me to the bus stop?"   
  


"Uh, sure," a male said warily. "It's at the next corner."   
  


"On this side of the street?"   
  


"Yeah."   
  


"Thanks, mate," Spike said. As the human rapidly walked off, Spike growled unhappily. A very large detraction from his sharper senses was that fear smelled all the more intoxicating to him. What he wouldn't give to be able to drain a human just once more, to feel the body stiffen in his hold, to hear the gasp of pain as his fangs pierced the supple skin right over the jugular...   
  


So far into his fantasy, Spike failed to sense someone come up behind him until he was roughly pulled backwards. The vampire stumbled as he was spun and violently shoved, the sudden dampening of the sound of traffic telling Spike he was between two buildings. His cane clattered loudly against the pavement as it was knocked from his hand.   
  


"Give me your money," a stony voice ordered.   
  


Spike's jaw almost dropped in shock. He was being mugged?   
  


"Now," the male demanded, "or you'll be kissing the pavement."   
  


The incredulity of the situation struck Spike, and he laughed in disbelief. "This just isn't my decade!"   
  


The mugger attacked swiftly and harshly, indicating he wasn't an amateur or a drunk. The fist that connected with Spike's jaw had enough strength behind it to knock the vampire back a step, and it told him two things: the mugger was human, and Spike was fucked.   
  


Spike managed to block the next hit, but the mugger's follow-up jab sent him staggering. His foot came down on the cane and, just like in the cartoons, the cane rolled and his foot flew out from under him. He tried to catch himself by dropping to one knee and proceeded to hurt himself worse by landing in a half-split, his tailbone cracking against the thick heel of his boot.   
  


The mugger showed no mercy, and the heavy ring he was wearing split Spike's lip on the next blow. Spike brought his hands up and shoved the human away, the brief jolt of pain in his head reminding him there wasn't much more he could do.   
  


Spike put one hand on the ground, twisted his other leg under him, and started to stand. The mugger had the clear advantage, though, and the blond grunted when a boot connected with his ribs. Steel toed, didn't it figure?, Spike thought.   
  


It was unfair. The fight was more demeaning than hurtful; the Slayer dished out much worse when she wasn't even mad at him. But Spike couldn't do anything to the mugger without the chip searing his brain. Hell, he couldn't even simply run away because he was blind!   
  


Spike growled when the man stomped on his fingers. Game-faced, his head shot up and he snarled threateningly in what he hoped was the human's direction. He couldn't beat off the git, but maybe he could scare the arsehole away.   
  


The mocking darkness had a name. It was Murphy.   
  


"Vamping out won't save your hide, muthafucker," the mugger sneered. "If anything, it sealed your coffin." He laughed. "Get it? Sealed your coffin?"   
  


Bloody h;ell, not only was Spike blind, defenseless, and most likely going to be staked by a random human mugger, it was a mugger that _punned_. Could anything be more humiliating?   
  


The mugger suddenly squawked, and it was followed by the sound of a body hitting the ground.

 

"Spike?" Angel's surprised voice came out of the darkness.   
  


Spike dropped his head and groaned. He'd had to ask.   
  


**Part Eight**   
  


"Spike, what are you doing here?" Angel asked, surprise already replaced by annoyance in his tone.   
  


Spike sat up on his heels, game-face fading away, and sent a dirty look in Angel's direction. "Do you mean: what am I doing in this alley, or the big existential: what am I doing on this earth besides waiting to see if my dick's gonna fall off next?"   
  


"Let's go with what you're doing in this alley, since your brain probably spasmed with your use of the word 'existential' and will need time to recover," Angel replied.   
  


"I'm impressed," Spike said. "A little long but mildly witty retort."   
  


"Ten seconds, Spike, or I'll finish what this guy started," Angel threatened.   
  


"I was being mugged, you great gormless git," Spike said in exasperation, "which you ever-so-nicely saved me from. So I thank you--" because it would freak Angel out, "--and, now, if you'll excuse me, I have a bus to catch."   
  


"You were being mugged?" Angel said skeptically.   
  


"Fuck you, Angel," the blond spat. He did _not_ need Angel reminding him of his complete helplessness. He checked his duster pocket for the green card -- at the rate things were going, he was surprised to find it was still there -- then felt around for his cane without being obvious.   
  


"Oh yeah, that's right -- you're chipped," Angel murmured quietly, but Spike heard him.   
  


"That's right, I'm chipped," Spike snapped. Angrily, he started slapping the ground in his search. "I'm biteless. I'm fangless. I'm neutered, impotent, fixed, or whatever the bloody hell else you want to label me. I've heard 'em all." His hand came down on his cane and his fingers closed around the familiar plastic-coated wood.   
  


Now, if he could only stake his sire with it...   
  


"Don't even think about it," Angel growled in warning, his foot coming down over the cane as Spike went to pick it up. He grabbed the blond tightly by the arm and hauled him to his feet.   
  


"Let go!" Spike exclaimed, ineffectually trying to break free. "You've done your soddin' good deed, now leave off!"   
  


Angel released Spike with a small shove, and the younger man bumped into the wall. "If I hear that you're the cause of any trouble in this city, I'll be on you faster than a fly on shit, got it?"   
  


Spike straightened his duster, surprised by the older vampire's coarse language but not by the threat. "Are you through?"   
  


"You can go," Angel said.   
  


"Oh, thank you, your royal highness," Spike mocked, dramatically bowing.   
  


"But remember, I'm watching you."   
  


A vulgar salute was the blond's reply.   
  


The mugger groaned, and Spike used what he hoped was a distraction to rest the back of his hand against the building wall. Angel hadn't seemed to notice that Spike was blind -- it was nighttime and they were in an alley, so it wasn't implausible -- and the younger vampire intended to keep it that way. All he needed to do was make it to the street, then walk along the curb to the bus stop on the corner without the use of his cane.   
  


Ugh.   
  


Spike set his jaw and started forward, his hand brushing against the rough brick wall. He forced himself to walk normally despite the desire to take tentative steps. He had no clue how far down the alley he'd been pulled, or if there was a dumpster or any other object in his path. Even a simple beer can on the ground could trip him up if he wasn't careful. If he wasn't careful, Angel would learn that he was blind and then his night would be complete.   
  


Spike hadn't realized how dependant he'd become on his cane in the months he'd been using it. It had grown into an extension of him, just as Carmen had predicted, and gave him the autonomy that he craved. Despite being mugged, he vowed to no longer sit at the motel and wallow in self-pity to the theme songs coming from the television. He might be blind, be he wasn't an invalid.   
  


At the moment, however, Spike felt like a fish out of water, floundering and gasping for breath. He refused to go back for his cane, though. He could ask strangers for help and be polite and courteous as he did so, but there was no way he was going to lose face in front of his sire... at least, not this time.   
  


The alley wall ended at a sharp corner, and Spike followed it around to the front of the building. The noise of the traffic on the street increased in volume, giving him a general guidance. He didn't feel Angel's eyes on him, and he hoped that the prick would be occupied dealing with the mugger for a bit.   
  


"Twelve oh-eight a.m.," the mechanical voice on the borrowed watch intoned.   
  


"Damn it!" Spike fumed. He'd missed the bus. Now, he'd have to find a phone and call for a cab.   
  


Spike slumped against the wall and thumped the back of his head twice on it with a: "Not... fair..." He pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering how much attention he'd attract if he started screaming. Most likely only Angel's, the one wanker whose attention he _didn't_ want.   
  


With a sigh, Spike pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He took a fortifying drag from it, then continued to follow the building, dragging his hand along the wall at roughly waist-level. There was bound to be a door sooner or later. He walked with his head down in hopes that other people on the sidewalk would chose to walk around him as if he wasn't paying attention to where he was going.   
  


The first door was locked, but the second opened under Spike's hand with ease. He flicked his cigarette to the ground before slipping inside and letting the door close behind him. Cut off from the outside noise, the blond stood still for a moment to get his bearings.   
  


Almost immediately, he knew he was in an adult bookstore. The smell was always the same: a mixture of lubricants, leather, plastic, sweat, and sex.   
  


Spike took a step forward and, knowing that the clerk's counter had to be near the door, said, "Hello?"   
  


"Can I help you?" came from the left.   
  


"Yeah, mate," Spike said, turning towards the thin male voice. "Could I use your phone to call a cab?"   
  


"It'll cost you thirty-five cents," the clerk replied.   
  


Spike dug out the correct change from his pocket, walked forward with hand outstretched until he touched the counter, and set the coins onto it. He could feel the guy looking intently at him, and he stared sightlessly in return. "The phone," he prompted.   
  


"It's right in front of you," the clerk said suspiciously. "Are you blind or something?"   
  


"Or something," Spike said, running both hands along the fake-wood counter until he found the phone. Putting the receiver to his ear, he dialed the familiar number of the cab company he'd used daily before Carmen had taught him how to ride the bus.   
  


"Pella's Yellow Cab."   
  


"Hello, Jeanie," Spike said into the phone. "It's Spike."   
  


"Hey, Spike," Jeannie, the control operator, greeted warmly. "You haven't called in a while."   
  


"Charge me the same rate as taking the bus, and I'll promise I'll call more often."   
  


Jeannie laughed. "You know that ain't gonna happen. So, where are ya, hon?"   
  


Spike asked the clerk and repeated the information over the phone. "I'm at the adult bookstore on Fifth and Strieber."   
  


"Now, sweetie, why are you in a place like that?" Jeannie asked with a slightly chastising tone.   
  


"A man has needs, luv, and you won't let me call you for pleasure," he purred in response.   
  


"Shame on you, Spike, for getting an old woman's imagination going," Jeannie teased. "Someone will be by to pick you up in about a half hour."   
  


A half hour was perfect. It gave him time to make sure his sire had left the area and retrieve his cane. "I'll be waiting outside, pet," Spike said, and rang off with a promise to behave. He uncrossed his fingers and smiled slyly in the clerk's direction. "You have any entertainment selections for the blind, mate?"   
  


*****   
  


Twenty minutes after his call to the cab company, Spike left the adult bookstore and headed back to the alley. He figured Angel would be long gone and, hopefully, the mugger, too. Without thinking, Spike had counted his steps earlier, making it somewhat easy to return to the place of the almost-crime.   
  


"Bloody prick," Spike muttered, cursing his sire as he got down on his knees in the alley. The cane had been in Spike's hand until Angel had bodily picked him up and pushed him away. Now, the blond had no clue as to where it was in the alley. He smiled wryly. He'd have to trust in blind luck in order to find it.   
  


Starting near his knees, Spike began skimming his hand over the surface of the pavement. As taught, he worked slowly and methodically, creating an invisible graph on the ground. He moved his hand back and forth only the width of his knees, reaching forward as far as he could while supporting himself on one hand. When he finished a section, he took a single 'step' on his knees to the right and started again.   
  


He kept an ear on the time as he searched. Jeannie would undoubtably send one of the regulars to pick him up, so he wasn't worried about missing his ride, but he'd rather not have anyone else know he'd been mugged if it could be avoided. He was bitter over the fact that it happened to begin with, he didn't need it compounded on by sympathetic humans.   
  


"Got you!" Spike's hand closed over the cane and he sighed in relief, then he rolled his eyes at his behavior. Strike up the band, Spike found his cane!, he thought derisively as he stood. Cor, sometimes he was such a ponce.   
  


Spike shook his head and started out of the alley, the cane swinging in a steady rhythm in front of him. There was a quart of _Chateau le Moo_ on ice back at the motel with his name on it, and he'd probably make it back in time for the _Late, Late Show_. Julia Roberts was the main guest, as he recalled.   
  


Spike's cane thwapped against something and he slowed his step. A second thwap, this one a little higher as he tried to identify what he'd come upon. "Er, excuse me?" he said questioningly, wondering if someone was standing in his path. No one had yelped when his cane hit...   
  


"Do you mind telling me what's going on?"   
  


Angel.   
  


Fuck.   
  


"Don't you have some damsel to rescue?" Spike retorted angrily. For the billionth time since being blinded, he mentally screamed: _WHY ME?!_   
  


"What's with the cane, Spike?" Angel demanded to know.   
  


"None of your effin' business," Spike snapped in reply. He purposely whacked the older man in the shin with his cane. "So move."   
  


"No," Angel said simply.   
  


Spike felt Angel's hand close around the cane, and he growled, "Let. Go."   
  


"Spike, it's Wally," a new, gruff voice entered into the conversation. "Is there a problem?"   
  


Spike yanked the cane out of Angel's hand. "No, Wally, no problem," he replied with a scowl in his sire's direction. The blond took a military step to his left and felt the alley wall brush against his arm. Without using his cane, he started forward.   
  


Angel grabbed his other arm. "I'm not through with you, yet."   
  


Spike shook him off. "Yes, you are. My unlife is not your bloody affair, Angel. I'm not some helpless sod that needs to be saved and I'm not a danger to your pet humans, so bugger off."   
  


The blond vampire continued forward unhampered. He stuck his elbow out when he reached the end of the alley. "Wally?"   
  


Wally, one of Spike's regular cab drivers, took his elbow. "I'm double-parked in front of the bookstore," the man said, guiding Spike towards his cab. He lowered his voice and asked, "Sure you don't need me to rough him up?"   
  


Spike could feel Angel's stare right between his shoulder blades, and his cheek ticked from clenching his jaw. "Thanks, but no," he ground out. "The tosser's not worth it."   
  


Wally assisted Spike into the cab, shutting the door behind the vampire. Spike clasped his thighs, his fingernails digging into his legs through his jeans, the folded cane resting on his lap. Posture ramrod straight, he faced directly forward as the cab got underway. Wisely, Wally kept silent the entire ride to the motel.   
  


*****   
  


Back in his room, Spike stripped down to his jeans, threw himself face first onto the bed, and let out a discordant scream. He hoped the Powers That Be were getting a good chuckle at the torture they were putting him through. He screamed again, just because it was something he could still do without any trouble.   
  


Spike laid like that until a knock at the door dragged him out of his well-deserved pouting marathon. He knew who it was, too. The arsehole could never leave well enough alone. And Spike couldn't not answer, because the pillock would most likely just kick the door in and enter anyway.   
  


"Grr," the blond stated, stomping the appropriate number of steps to the door. With a twist of the knob, he violently yanked the door opened and yelled, "I'M BLIND, OKAY?!!"   
  


Leaving the door open, he stalked over to the night-stand, grabbed a cigarette from the pack in the drawer, and lit it. He heard the door snick as it was shut by his unwanted guest and the click of the light-switch on the wall. His shoulders tensed, he waited for the inevitable questions that he knew he had to answer before the bastard would leave him alone. He didn't have to wait long.   
  


"How did it happen?" Angel asked, his tone bland.   
  


"Not that you really care, but your little girl bashed me up against the wall one too many times," Spike replied, exhaling the smoke from his cigarette as he spoke. "She broke the chip, it fried my brain, and now I'm blind."   
  


"Will you heal?" the older vampire inquired in the same emotionless tone.   
  


Spike shrugged. "Doubtful. The Watcher says the brain can't repair itself like that, even in vampires."   
  


Silence from the other man, which stretched on until Spike's cigarette was down to the filter. The blond stubbed the butt out, then turned around and leaned back against the night-stand with his arms crossed over his bare chest. "Get a good look, Angel," he said. "Because this is the last time I'm going to let you near me."   
  


Angel was still silent, but Spike knew he was being examined like a bug under a microscope. Finally, the brunette spoke. However, what he said wasn't at all what Spike expected.   
  


"Drusilla is in L.A.," Angel said, his voice still without inflection. "Darla is back from hell and with her. Watch your back."   
  


The door closing sounded like a pistol shot to Spike. 

 

 **Part Nine**   
  


Carmen picked Spike up at eight o'clock on Sunday night and together they rode the bus to the O.W.D Incorporated factory. The green card had worked. Spike had a job.   
  


Oh, happy days.   
  


Spike nodded at the appropriate times as Carmen rambled on about something or other. He wasn't really listening. He was too worried about making a fool out of himself.   
  


He hadn't been employed in over a century, unless one counted taking care of Drusilla as work. Angelus might have, but Spike never had. He'd loved his wicked princess, insanity and all. Taking care of her had been a part of their relationship from the beginning, and he'd happily go back to that without hesitation.   
  


The trouble was, she didn't want him anymore, and that was even before he'd been chipped and blinded.   
  


The bus pulled to a stop and several passengers, including Spike and Carmen, got off. Carmen cupped Spike's elbow, not needing to remind the vampire to count his steps, and together they headed into the factory where Spike was newly employed.   
  


O.W.D. Incorporated was a plastics factory. They manufactured things such as eating utensils, children's toys, kit model parts -- anything that could be mass produced with a mold. The factory produced, packaged, and shipped the items all over the world, and had sister corporations throughout the continental United States.   
  


They were greeted at the door by Mike Eggerton, the third shift supervisor and Spike's new boss. Spike shook Mike's hand, and wondered how he'd managed to sink so low. He was acting so human it was nauseating.   
  


"When you arrive, the first thing you'll do every night is clock in," Mike was explaining as he, Spike, and Carmen stood near the employee's entrance. "O.W.D has several visually impaired employees and we've taken to marking things in braille. Your time card is fifth from the bottom right."   
  


Prompted by Mike, Spike ran his thumb up the side of the time card holder until he found his name. Carmen had taught him to read a little braille, such as his name, the numbers in an elevator, and the restroom signs. She promised to teach him more if he wanted to learn, but so far he'd held off. To him, learning braille would be the final nail in his coffin, when he finally admitted to the fact that he would _never_ see again. Currently, he still had the tiniest amount of hope that his brain would heal and things would be back to normal -- or as normal as having a chip in his skull could get.   
  


Spike punched in -- he would be getting paid for training -- and then docilely followed Mike to the employee lounge, where he was given a locker with a key lock. There was a safety pin attached to the key in order to pin it to his clothing so he wouldn't lose it. How utterly embarrassing.   
  


The vampire was led from the lounge into the factory itself. The initial impression was the easiest to remember for the blind when going to a new place, and it seemed as though Mike knew that because he didn't give Spike a tour. He led the blond directly from the employee lounge to his work station.   
  


Spike had a work station. Someone stake him now.   
  


Spike tucked his cane in the back pocket of his jeans and took a seat on the high-backed stool as told. On either side of the stool there was a ten gallon plastic garbage can. In front of Spike was a table with a plastic bin on it, filled with newly molded plastic items. He could hear and feel other people working near him, and he figured there were many work stations identical to his that filled up this portion of the factory.   
  


"This is the toy division, and you've been assigned to toy soldiers," Mike said. "Your job is relatively simple. You take a line of soldiers out of the bin in front of you, break them off the mold line, and drop them into the can on your right. Once every soldier is off the mold line, toss it in the can on your left. Then you start all over again."   
  


Under Mike and Carmen's supervision, Spike fumbled for a line of toy soldiers from the bin in front of him, awkwardly broke them from the mold line, searched for the can to drop them in, listened to the hollow sound the soldier made when it hit the bottom of the empty plastic can, and repeated the process until the mold line was clear. The mold line was dropped into the other can and Spike fumbled for another from the bin in front of him.   
  


"'For suicide is painless...,'" the darkness started to sing the theme song from _M.A.S.H._   
  


"You can stand or sit, it doesn't matter," Mike told the blond. "Both cans will be empty when you come on shift, but if you manage to fill one you call for another. You have a twenty-five minute lunch at one o'clock, and you can take two ten-minute smoking breaks. Smoking is allowed only in the lounge or outside, nowhere else."   
  


Spike nodded. He was afraid to open his mouth, because any words that came out would probably get him fired. Not that getting fired was looking to be that horrible of a prospect. He could always go back to Sunnydale and beg for charity from Buffy. Yeah, and _that_ wouldn't be humiliating at all.   
  


"Come on, I'll show you where the restroom is," Mike said. "After that, we'll head back to my office so we can sign some papers and make you official."   
  


An hour later, Spike was official and Carmen had gone home under the promise that Lisa would be there at the end of his shift to accompany him back to the motel. Both ladies would take turns accompanying him until he was certain he could get back and forth to the factory on his own. His shift was Sunday through Friday, from nine o'clock p.m. to four o'clock a.m., and he would make $9.00 an hour to start, with a raise and full benefits after he'd been there for ninety days.   
  


If Angelus could only see him...   
  


Spike shuddered at the thought. The souled version of his sire would probably laugh his poncy arse off, but the unsouled version... Disappointment would probably be foremost, followed quickly by disownment. Spike would have been alone.   
  


Much like he was now.   
  


Depression hung around Spike like a thick cloud as he got to work separating the toy soldiers from the mold line. Conversation flowed between the other workers, but he had sunk too far into misery to notice. He was trying to think of the reasons why he'd decided to continue unliving instead of ridding the world of such a pathetic creature like himself.   
  


Luckily, at lunch break, things started to look up.   
  


*****   
  


Spike counted his steps to the employee lounge at lunch, cane swinging rhythmically in front of him, desperately craving a cigarette. He pushed open the lounge doors and was greeted by boisterous laughter and the sounds of bags and soda cans being opened. His fags were in his duster, and he slowly made his way to the locker he'd been assigned where he'd stashed his coat.

"Hey, new guy!" someone called. "Grab your lunch and join us!"   
  


Spike turned towards the voice with a questioning expression on his face. "Yeah, you!" the same someone called to him. "And hurry up, we've only got twenty-five minutes!"   
  


The blond vampire nodded and continued to his locker. It took a minute for him to unlock it, but he did it and gratefully retrieved his smokes and lighter. Carmen had told him to pack a lunch, and, not wanting to look suspicious, he'd brought a row of Thin Mint Girl Scout Cookies that he'd purchased from Carmen's granddaughter.   
  


Locker re-closed and key back in his pocket, Spike carefully picked his way through the tables of lunching employees, mentally thanking Carmen profusely for his pre-Kate-date dining lesson. He felt like a freak on display as it was, he didn't need to add to it by falling flat on his face in front of his new coworkers.   
  


"New guy," another someone said. "There's an empty seat to your left."   
  


"It's Spike," Spike said. He found the chair, slid his hand down the seat, then sat down. He expertly folded the cane and set it on his lap.   
  


"I'm Colin," the chair-indicator said from across the table. "To your right and on around is George, Debbie, John, me, Petra, Stu, and Mussa."   
  


Each said hello to the vampire, and Spike took care to memorize their voices. Stu was the original person who called him over to join the group.   
  


"We were going to say howdy earlier," Debbie said, "but we figured we'd not break your concentration your first hour on the job."   
  


"Er, thanks," Spike said, accepting the excuse given for his melancholy behavior. He lit up his cigarette and the smoke joined the cloud he could smell hovering over the table. "So, uh--" small talk, argh "--where in the factory do you work?"   
  


"We work in toys with you," George replied. "The divisions are grouped in teams of eight, and you're on our team."   
  


"We're the Soldier Boys," John piped up. On Spike's left, Mussa cleared her throat, and John amended, "I mean, the Soldier Persons."   
  


"There are two tables pushed together, Spike, end to end," Colin said. "We work around the table in a big rectangle, pretty much in the same order we're seated now."   
  


Colin's explanation was too descriptive for a usual conversation, which had Spike curious. The man had also given a clear picture of where the chair was and how everyone was seated at the table. Since Spike wasn't one to pussyfoot around, he pointed out, "You lot don't seem to be acting awkward around me. Why's that?"   
  


"You're not the only blind person on shift," Stu replied. "Abe works over in forks and Kathy works in doll shoes. They've both been here awhile."   
  


"Ah, got it," Spike said.   
  


"So, Spike," John said eagerly. "Are you going to share those cookies?"   
  


"Share my Thin Mints? Are you nuts?" Spike said incredulously. There was laughter all around the table, and the vampire found himself smiling widely in return.   
  


Maybe things wouldn't be so bad after all.   
  


*****   
  


"Hello, Spike," a soft, husky voice greeted him as the employees headed back to work after lunch. "I am Petra Pawlak. Welcome to O.W.D."   
  


The words of greeting were coated by a thick accent, and by the name Spike guessed it was Polish. Petra, he remembered, was one of the people at his lunch table and in his work section, but she had said nothing during break. He wondered if it was because English wasn't her native language.   
  


"Dobry spotyka was," Spike greeted in Polish. ~Good to meet you.~   
  


Petra gasped. "Wy mówicie polski?"   
  


"Maa suma," Spike replied. A very small amount, actually. He'd only visited Poland with Dru for about a year, sometime in the 1920's.   
  


He felt a gentle hand on his arm. "Dobry spotyka was, te. Bardzo dobry," Petra said, her warm breath near his ear sending shivers down his spine. ~Good to meet you, too. Very good.~   
  


Spike smiled in her direction. "Tak, bardzo dobry, Petra Pawlak," he agreed. ~Yes, very good, Petra Pawlak.~ "Penwie."   
  


~Definitely.~   
  


**Part Ten**   
  


It was odd how quickly time passed, even for a vampire. Before Spike realized it, it was December and Christmas was almost upon him. His probation period at O.W.D. had ended almost six months previously, increasing his pay to $16.00 per hour and giving him benefits that practically eliminated the cost of biweekly visits to NBS. He had a comfortable routine, friends that he saw outside of work, and, of all things, a girlfriend that he was on the verge of falling in love with. She didn't even mind that he was a _wampir_.   
  


He had adjusted again. His unlife had become utterly benign and human. And he was _happy_ about it.   
  


"No, no, no," Petra said, running her work-roughened fingers against the back of Spike's hand. "Jack and Jill do not ma plec at the top of wzgórze."   
  


Spike raised his head and grinned devilishly at her. "How do you know that's not what the book says?"   
  


"Because the words are printed on page," Petra informed him. She tapped the large book near his fingertips. "It reads: Jack and Jill went up hill to fetch condom."   
  


Spike laughed, turned in his chair, and pulled the tall woman onto his lap. Petra's throaty laugh filled the kitchen in their apartment. Her muscular arms went around his neck and his hands slid up under her t-shirt to caress her warm skin. He nuzzled the super-short hair by her ear and murmured, "Maybe it says: Spike and Petra went into the bedroom to ma plec."   
  


"Hmm," Petra wiggled on his lap, "I think you are correct this time."   
  


The phone rang.   
  


"Bloody hell," Spike cursed, making her chuckle. He tightened his hold on her when she went to move. "Don't answer it. I want to shag."   
  


"I must," Petra told him. "It might be Matka."   
  


"Then definitely don't answer it," Spike protested as she extracted herself from his arms. "Nothing ruins the mood more than a call from dear old mum."   
  


Petra kissed the top of his head and went to answer the phone anyway. Spike stuck his lower lip out and returned to the Braille Book of Extended Nursery Rhymes he was learning to read. The nursery rhymes were amusing, especially the one about Humpty Dumpty and the omelette the King made out of him.   
  


Spike's girlfriend of seven months returned to the kitchen a few minutes later. "That was Debbie," she told him. "There is new club in Glendale we will go to with our przyjaciele tonight."   
  


"Sounds fine," Spike said distractedly. The blackbirds the King had baked into a pie were currently attacking his court.   
  


"You will have to change clothing," Petra said.   
  


"Uh-huh." The Queen's eyeballs were being pecked out! What a great book!   
  


"Right now, I am nude and would like ma plec."   
  


"Uh-huh." Those blackbirds were--   
  


Spike's brain registered what Petra had said and sightless gaze shot in her direction. "You're naked?"   
  


"And with goose pimples," she said.   
  


"I wonder if they read like braille," Spike pondered as he stood and shed his t-shirt.   
  


"Why not you come find out?"   
  


*****   
  


The new club in Glendale was practically bursting at the seams. The waiting line to get in ran around the entire block. Velvet ropes and bulky doormen guarded the doors like bulldogs, not even letting well-known young stars past.   
  


Inside, the music was Industrial, the pounding bass leading the dancers on the lower level dance floor. The center of the second floor was open, allowing the club guests to watch the dancers below. Escalators and glass-enclosed elevators took the patrons up and down.   
  


The Soldier Persons division of O.W.D, along with their significant others, had arrived early enough to get into the club. They sat at the second floor counter that ran along the center balustrade, watching the dancers, socializing, and drinking. Despite working together all week long, when Saturday night rolled around they gathered together once again for fun.   
  


"Kate, why'd they let you in?" Spike asked his friend after the cop had joined them at the counter.   
  


"Very funny, Spike," Kate said dryly. "Petra, why do you like this clown?"   
  


"He has big czolnek," Petra replied.   
  


"I did not need to know that."   
  


Spike chuckled. "Jealous, pet?"   
  


"No, because I know _my_ czolnek's bigger than yours," Kate said, deadpan.   
  


"Why do I believe you?" Spike said with a grin.   
  


Petra brushed Spike's arm. "Spike, I go get another drink. You would like?"   
  


"Yeah, get me another beer, luv," Spike replied. Petra left, and he put his hand on her stool so it wouldn't be taken. "So, Kate, anything interesting happen lately?"   
  


The music suddenly cut off and a high-pitched whine filled the air.   
  


"This is interesting," Kate muttered, shifting on her chair.   
  


"Attention, ladies and gentlemen," a hauntingly familiar voice came over the speakers. "I have an announcement to make that I want all of you good little humans to hear."   
  


Spike's entire body tensed. He knew who was speaking, and that meant...   
  


He grabbed for Kate, catching her arm. "Where's Petra?" he asked quickly.   
  


"Shh, I need to hear," Kate hissed.   
  


"For the grand opening of Club Indigo, we thought we'd start a new tradition," the confident female continued. The clanging of the outer doors were like gunshots in the music-free building. "Everyone dies."   
  


Total silence. Then, "Grandmum, can we start with her?", and a fright-filled, "You hurt me."   
  


Spike's heart dropped to his shoes.   
  


Kate abruptly rose, but Spike held tight to her arm. "Kate, does she have Petra?" he asked desperately.   
  


"Now isn't the time--"   
  


" _Kate_ ," Spike interrupted sharply.   
  


Kate paused for a brief moment. "Yes, she does. But don't do anything!"   
  


"What do you say, folks?" the first woman asked. "Should we start with her?"   
  


"Forget it, Darla," a new, strong male's voice echoed in the Club. "You're not doing anything."   
  


"Angel," Kate practically growled from beside Spike.   
  


"Why, Angel," Darla's laugh echoed over the microphone. "How lovely of you to join us."   
  


Spike tugged on Kate's arm. "You know Angel? Where is he?"   
  


"Yes, I know that bastard," Kate said. "And he's close enough to spit on. I bet this is his fault."   
  


"Take me over to him," Spike instructed, standing.   
  


"Drusilla, let her go," Angel ordered.   
  


"But Daddy, she reeks of my love," Drusilla whined, her amplified voice like a sharp knife through the air.   
  


"Don't tell me you're in with him," Kate said.   
  


Spike allowed his ridges to flash. "I'm one of him," he hissed. "Now, take me to him."   
  


"Drusilla, what are you talking about?" Darla asked.   
  


"Her pores leak with love for him," Drusilla said with anger. "Happiness buzzes around her like flies. Buzz, buzz, buzz."   
  


"Open the doors, Darla," Angel demanded.   
  


Game-face gone, Spike half-climbed onto the counter near Angel and was suddenly hauled to his feet by the man. "Angel," he said the older vampire's name pleadingly. "Don't let Dru hurt Petra."   
  


"Well, well, will you look at this," Darla said. "It's a regular family reunion."   
  


"You've been a naughty, naughty boy, Spike," Drusilla scolded.   
  


"I'm sorry, baby," Spike said loudly, his voice carrying down to the dance floor where the vampiresses held court. "But I was bored."   
  


"Spike?" Petra's frightened voice came over the speakers.   
  


Spike clenched his jaw. Why this? Why now? He was finally happy again, damn it!   
  


"Twenty feet," Angel whispered. "Roll forward when you land."   
  


"Mummy's very cross with you," Drusilla went on. "You will go to bed without supper."   
  


"Now," Angel said.   
  


Spike felt Angel jump and the blond vampire was right behind him. He heard gasps and cries as he went pummeling down, the loudest a choked-off yell from Petra. He had no idea when he'd reach the floor, so he kept his feet flat and his legs loose.   
  


The connection with the tiled floor was jarring, but Spike rolled forward into a somersault and up to his feet, like he'd done countless times in the past. He yanked the cane out of the back pocket of his black jeans, the sections clicking into place with a flick of his wrist. "Drusilla!" he yelled angrily. "Let her go, now!"   
  


"No!" Drusilla stomped her foot, unknowingly directing Spike to where she was. "She took you from me and she must be punished."   
  


Spike stalked towards Drusilla's voice, his cane swinging unerringly before him, a perfect extension of him. He was completely focused on Dru, ignoring the melodrama playing out between the other ex-lovers, Angel and Darla.   
  


"You didn't want me anymore, Dru," Spike stated, coming to a stop at the edge of a raised dias. He lifted his chin and looked blindly upwards. "It's been _years_ since we broke up, so don't give me any of that bloody shite."   
  


"You're covered in humanity," Drusilla sniffed disdainfully from almost directly in front of him. "You love them, you live like them--"   
  


"And I like it!" Spike exploded.   
  


Drusilla gasped. "What happened to my Spike?" she said in a wavering voice.   
  


"He lost everything, Drusilla," Spike confessed in a flat voice. "And he had to rebuild himself in order to survive."   
  


He heard Petra squeak in distress and he clenched his hand around his cane. Then he felt Drusilla's hand ghost in front of his sightless eyes. "That nasty Slayer hurt you," she said. "For that, I shall rip her eyeballs out and feed them to the gulls."   
  


Spike felt a pang in his heart for a love never realized, but shrugged. "If you want, ducks. Be my bloody guest. Just let Petra go."   
  


"The stars say it's time to scurry and hide," Drusilla said in a sing-song voice. "The rabbit must hop into the briar patch."   
  


Spike stumbled backwards as Petra was shoved off the dias at him. He quickly wrapped his arms around her, his cane clattering on the tiled floor as he caught his balance. Drusilla's childish laughter faded into the pounding of Petra's heart.   
  


"Are you all right?" he asked Petra, holding her close.   
  


"Tak," Petra said in a shaky voice. "That was your old lover?"   
  


"Yeah," Spike replied. "I'm sorry--"   
  


"No," she interrupted. "I would be jealous if I was old lover, too."   
  


Spike leaned back slightly and brushed his hand along the side of Petra's face. "Kocham was, Petra."   
  


He felt her smile, and his insides melted. "Kocham was, Spike," she echoed. ~I love you.~   
  


**Epilogue**   
  


The Powers That Be had a sick sense of humor. Not only had they forced Spike into learning humility and entirely changing his way of life, they'd given him a conscience as well. The good part was that Spike, the soulless demon, had everything that Angel strived to obtain, and the blond relished in that fact. The bad part was that Spike actually worried about humans now, and not just as a threat to his chipped self.   
  


Sighing, Spike nodded to Petra, who rang the doorbell. It had been a month since Darla and Drusilla had attacked Club Indigo. Although there'd been plenty physical damage to the premises, not many people had died. Angel's lackeys had seen to that.   
  


Kate still wasn't talking to Spike, which was a disappointment. He really had enjoyed her company. She had usually joined the group on Saturday nights and had been flirting heavily with George. It was too bad.   
  


Spike's O.W.D. friends looked at him differently, as well, since his dramatic twenty-foot jump that night. He'd lied and said he used to do stunt work before he lost his sight, and that Angel had been a stunt person, too, before he'd become a private investigator. They thought Spike was a hero, and teased him every chance they could.   
  


The front door opened and a young girl greeted Spike with familiarity. "Hey, Spike. Long time, no see. We thought you were dead. Who's this?"   
  


"Dawn," Spike said. "This is Petra. Is Buffy here?"   
  


"Yeah, hold on," Dawn walked away from the door, leaving it open but not inviting them in. "Buffy!"   
  


Curious, Spike found the door frame and tried to put his hand past it. There was no barrier. He grinned, but did not move to go inside.   
  


A few seconds later, he heard a voice from a woman he was happy to find still alive. "Oh my God, Spike?" Buffy gasped. "We thought you were dead!"   
  


"That's what Dawn said," Spike smiled in Buffy's direction. "But, as you can see, I'm still here."   
  


"I don't need to, um, get the wooden spoon, do I?" Buffy asked, her tone now wary.   
  


"Nah, still chipped," Spike replied.   
  


"Okay," Buffy said. "But if you're lying, you're so dusted." There was a short pause. "Hi, I'm Buffy, the Slayer. And you are?"   
  


"Subtle, pet," Spike teased. "Petra's human, so no need to get your hackles up." He half-turned to his girlfriend. "Petra, meet Buffy Summers, girl who used to kick my arse on a regular basis. Buffy, meet Petra Pawlak, the woman who currently kicks my arse on a regular basis."   
  


"Good to meet you, Buffy," Petra greeted warmly. "I apologize for Spike's bad joking."   
  


"That's okay," Buffy said. "Do you guys want to come in?"   
  


"Love to, Slayer," Spike said, allowing Petra to guide him forward. His cane lightly knocked against the doorjamb as he entered the house. "Before we get to the pleasantries, we should probably talk business. You haven't seen Drusilla in town, have you..."   
  
  
  
  
  


**End**


End file.
